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Our Uncle William 



OUR UNCLE WILUAM 


ALSO 

NATE SAWYER 


By 

DAVID SKAATS fOSTER 

Author of “Flighty Arethusa,** “The Road To 
London,” “The Divided Medal,” Etc. 


THE FRANKLIN BOOK COMPANY 

Publishers 

70 Fifth Avenue, New York 
Leicester Square, London 






Copyright, 1915, by 
The Franklin Book Company 


m 12 1915 



y>'sr 


©aA:J!)7540 

H-0/ 


CONTENTS 


Our Uncle William 

CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. The Carson Family ^ 

II. The Arrival of Uncle William 2i 

III. Skull and Crossbones 

IV. Uncle William’s Gold Mine 40 

V. Saint Peter and the Baron 50 

VI. A Readjustment . .• 5o 

VII. A Prescription for Amy 72 

VIII. Blessed are the Merciful go 

IX. Thomas Carson^s Speculation 90 

X. Saint’s Rest joo 

XL Pilgrim’s Progress log 

XII. Uncle William’s Departure 117 

Nate Sawyer 

I. A Munchausen of the Forest 126 

II. The Devil’s Gorge 147 

III. A Votary of Diana 175 

IV. Voices of the Night 190 

V. But He Saw the Other One First 218 

VI. The Ghost Again 233 

VII. The Shadow on the Curtain 246 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

VIII. The Telltale Photographs 259 

IX. Leonardo' da Vinci 271 

X. In the Forest of Arden 283 

XL The Cruise of the Lorelei 297 

XII. Cynthia Resolves to Stay Single 313 

XIII. The Riddle is Solved 335 

XIV. After Twenty-Five Years 349 

XV. Cynthia Would Not but She Did 365 

XVI. Nate is Equal to the Occasion 385 


CHAPTER I 
The Carson Family 

“It is very strange,” said George Percival 
Carson, Mrs. Sarah Grosvenor Carson’s younger 
son, “that we have never heard of Uncle William 
before. I have never heard that father had a 
brother; in fact, I have always been taught to 
believe that he had neither brothers or sisters.” 

“That is what I always supposed,” said his 
mother. “When I first met your dear father he 
was alone in the world. He certainly never 
told me that he had any relatives. Your dear 
father was singularly reticent in regard to his 
family. When I spoke of the matter, he in- 
variably turned the conversation to something 
else. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it.” 

“Perhaps,” said George Percival, “the less 
he said about his family the better. Probably 
he couldn’t say anything good about them; so he 
kept silent.” 

“George, I am ashamed of you. Your re- 
marks are certainly in very bad taste. I have 
no doubt that your dear father’s ancestors were 
highly respectable people; though, perhaps, 
they did not move in the sphere which has al- 
ways been occupied by my people. My grand- 
father Grosvenor was a distinguished lawyer, 
and my father was a judge of the probate court. 

9 


10 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


Never forget that, George. Never forget that 
you are a Grosvenor. The fact, however, that 
you are a Grosvenor on your mother’s side, does 
not excuse you for making flippant and indeli- 
cate remarks about the family of your dear 
father.” 

“There is no harm, mother, in making flip- 
pant remarks about a family that never existed. 
As far as we know, father never had any ances- 
tors or relatives whatever. That is what makes 
it so strange to have this Uncle William popping 
up like a jack-in-the-box. I wish you would 
read his letter over again. Perhaps there is 
something in it which we missed.” 

There were four people in the room beside 
the mother and son. There was an older sister 
of Mrs. Carson, a widow, Mrs. Lydia Grosvenor 
Thorne; there was a younger sister, Mrs. Maria 
Grosvenor Rosenfeld. There was Mrs. Car- 
son’s daughter Amy, a girl of twenty; and there 
was the wife of Mrs. Carson’s elder son, Thomas, 
whose maiden name had been Lily Smith. These 
six, together with Morris Rosenfeld, Master 
Max Rosenfeld, his son, Thomas Grosvenor 
Carson and his little daughter. Dot, or Dorothy 
Carson, lived in Mrs. Sarah Grosvenor Carson’s 
house. 

The six people in Mrs. Carson’s parlor now 
brought their chairs together, Mrs. Carson took 
the letter from her handbag, and, adjusting her 
eye glasses, read it aloud, 


THE CARSON FAMILY 


II 


Union Hotel, 

Denver, Col., May i6, 1913. 

Mrs. Sarah Carson, 

176 West 48th St., New York. 

My dear sister-in-law Sarah. 

I am your husband’s brother, William. Perhaps he has 
never told you about me. That would be his way. I left 
him many, many years ago, when he was little more than a 
boy. Ever since then, however, I have kept him in mind, 
and I sorrowed upon hearing of his death. I have procured, 
also, at different times, news of you and your three children, 
Thomas, George and Amy. I know what they are like, 
and I know how it is with you and them. I have spent all 
these years in labor and turmoil. I have succeeded in what 
I set out to do, and my task here is ended. I am tired of 
the continuous strife for gold and station with which I am 
surrounded, and I am coming east, to spend my declining 
years among the old familiar scenes. You all are near and 
dear to me, and I would fain dwell with you, or near to you, 
that I may watch over the destinies of your children, and 
give them such advantages as lie in my power. I shall leave 
here in one week, and shall arrive in New York, at the 
Forty-second Street Station, at four o’clock in the afternoon 
of the 26th. Do not trouble to meet me, as I can easily find 
my way to your house. With love for you and the children, 
I am. 

Sincerely yours, 

William Carbon. 

^‘What do you think of it all?” asked Mrs. 
Carson when she had finished reading. 

‘T think, Mother,” answered George, ‘‘that 
the whole thing has a very queer look. For 
twenty-five or thirty years the old beggar never 
gives a sign. Then all at once he bobs up and 
develops a great fondness for us. I do hope 
that the old chap is well heeled.” 


12 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


“I wish, George, that you would not use such 
coarse expressions. Remember that you are 
speaking of your uncle, your dear father’s broth- 
er. He is certainly entitled to our respect and 
our affection. I do not think that you need 
worry about his financial circumstances. Judg- 
ing from what he says in his letter, I am sure 
that your Uncle William is well provided with 
worldly goods. I should not be surprised if he 
were a millionaire. Upon receiving his letter 
I at once wrote him that we would receive him 
with open arms, and that we would certainly 
expect him to make his home with us for the 
rest of his life.” 

^‘That’s right. Mother,” said George Perci- 
val. see that you have wisely resolved not 
to let a good thing get away when once you 
have it in hand. I wonder whether I could 
strike the old chap for a six-cylinder car.” 

“George, I really wish you would not say 
such heartless and detestable things. If your 
Uncle William is a rich man, there is no reason 
why we should not all benefit from it. I am 
sure that we have had a hard enough time of it 
up to the present. What would we all have 
done had we not made common capital of our 
small means and lived together under the same 
roof? Even as it is, we have sometimes been 
hard put to it to secure the bare necessaries of 
life. It has also been very hard to preserve such 
appearances in our style of living as our position 
has made imperative. It will be time enough 


THE CARSON FAMILY 


13 


to talk of a motor car after a few of our abso- 
lutely crying needs are satisfied. The house is 
in a shameful condition. We must have an 
Oriental rug for the parlor and dining-room, 
and the building must be newly papered and 
painted throughout. These are only a few of 
the many betterments which I have thought of. 
Then there are some gowns and hats for Amy 
and myself, and some things for Lily.” 

“I am going to ask him for a Persian lamb 
sacque,” announced Lily Smith Carson, ‘‘a real 
one, with a mink collar and mink muff. What 
are you going to ask him for, Amy?” 

“I am not going to ask him for anything,” 
answered Amy. “Furthermore, I don’t care 
whether he has any money or not. I would 
think just as much of him if he were as poor as 
Job’s turkey. I have always felt the want of a 
real, live, kind old uncle, and I know that I 
shall love him immensely.” 

“Amy,” said her mother, reprovingly, “you 
are always so unpracticable. You talk as if 
you were the only one who is going to care any- 
thing for him, whereas, of course, we shall all 
think the world of your Uncle William. At 
the same time, though, I see no reason why we 
should neglect our opportunities. Your Uncle 
William is doubtless a man of large means. 
We are his only living relatives. To judge from 
the wording of his letter, he is a man of kindly 
and generous impulses. What could please him 
more than to supply us with those luxuries and 


14 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


pleasures which we have always been without. 
When I was a girl, I never knew what it was to 
count the cost of anything. Since my marriage 
to your dear father, my life has been nothing 
but one long struggle to maintain a home and 
to keep up appearances. Do you wonder that 
I look forward so joyfully to the prospect of an 
amelioration of our circumstances?” 

“I feel just as you do,” remarked Lily Smith 
Carson. “When I married Thomas, I looked 
forward to a life of ease and happiness. I had 
no idea that I was letting myself in for this long, 
dreary, dull, sordid existence. I loved parties, 
dances, theatres, suppers and pretty clothes. It 
is so long since I have experienced anything of 
the kind that I have forgotten what they are 
like. No one will be riiore glad than I to wel- 
come Uncle William.” 

“Lily,” spoke her mother-in-law, severely, 
“I wonder that you can talk in that way. Con- 
sider for a moment what your condition was be- 
fore you married Thomas, and what it is now. 
Your remarks are certainly the extreme of poor 
taste, and show a lack of discretion and ordinary 
sense. You must remember at least that you are 
now a member of an intelligent, respectable and 
cultured family.” 

“I take it,” said Lily, defiantly, “that you 
mean to infer that my family was neither intel- 
ligent, respectable, or cultured.” 

“You may take it in any way you wish.” 

Lily Smith Carson arose from her chair. 


THE CARSON FAMILY 


15 


She was a tall, shapely girl, with black hair 
and eyes, and a pink-and-ivory complexion. She 
looked at her mother-in-law for a moment with 
blazing eyes. Then she swept out of the apart- 
ment. 

^What a vain, empty-headed spitfire our 
Lily is!” exclaimed George Percival. “Poor 
old Thomas let himself in for a lot of trouble 
when he married her. That is what comes of 
taking to wife a lady stenographer. I doubt if 
she makes a favorable impression on Uncle 
Bill.” 

“George,” exclaimed his mother, sternly, “do 
not criticize your sister-in-law. She has her 
faults, heaven knows, but we must pass them 
over. Also, please remember this: you must 
never again give your uncle that name.” 

“Sarah,” now spoke up her sister Lydia, “if 
your brother-in-law is the rich man that you 
think him, it will make a great difference in 
your situation, and I was thinking that it would 
be no longer necessary for me to contribute so 
much to the common capital. Instead of seven 
hundred dollars, five hundred should be a 
plenty.” 

“Lydia,” exclaimed Mrs. Carson, “what are 
you thinking of? When William is with us, it 
will be necessary to put the table and other parts 
of the housekeeping upon a better footing, there 
will be an extra expense, and, instead of reduc- 
ing your contribution, you should rather in- 
crease it. However, I will not ask this. There 


1 6 OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 

is something besides which I wish to talk to you 
about. You and I have the two large rooms 
upon the second floor. I have the advantage 
of a front room; but your room is the sunnier 
and, I think, the better of the two. In fact, I 
think that your room is the best in the house. 
Of course, nothing will be too good for my 
brother William, and I have decided to install 
him in your room.” 

“And where am I to go?” demanded her 
sister, with an outraged air. 

“I was thinking of putting you in the room 
next to yours, at the back of the hallway.” 

“And do you think, for a moment, that I am 
paying seven hundred dollars a year for the 
privilege of occupying a back hall bedroom? 
The idea is outrageous, and I refuse absolutely. 
Put that new brother-in-law of yours in that 
eight-by-ten bedroom if you want. It probably 
is plenty good enough for him. I doubt if he 
has any money anyway, and, mark my words, 
you will be sorry that you took him into the 
house at all.” 

“Lydia,” answered Mrs. Carson, with gentle 
forbearance in her tone and manner, “I do not 
mind in the least what you say about Brother 
William. You are simply envious and jealous, 
and I pass it by. When we decided to club to- 
gether and live in my house, it was agreed that 
I was to be mistress of the establishment, and 
that I was to arrange everything. I have de- 
cided that Brother William shall occupy your 


THE CARSON FAMILY ' 17 

room, and there is nothing further to be said 
about the matter.” 

“Very well,” exclaimed Lydia Grosvenor 
Thorne, rising to her feet. “I shall pack my 
trunks this very night.” 

She was a tall, angular woman. Her sparse 
gray hair was drawn smoothly back from her 
brow, and she had an acidulous cast of counte- 
nance. For a moment, she looked at her sister 
with a glance of scorn. Then she stalked from 
the room like a grenadier. 

“Dear me,” lamented Mrs. Carson, “Lydia 
grows more cattish and spiteful every day, and 
just see how obstinate and unreasonable she is.” 

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you 
about, too,” she continued, turning to her sister, 
Maria. “I will wish Brother William of 
course to have the post of honor at the table. 
He must sit at my right hand, and Morris will 
have to move. The table only accommodates 
ten, anyway, so Max will have to sit at a little 
side table, which I will place immediately be- 
hind you and Morris.” 

“But I won’t consent to have Max eat at a 
side table,” announced Mrs. Rosenfeld, indig- 
nantly. “The poor little boy will be lonely and 
will not eat. He has always sat by his mama, 
and it would be cruel to put him off by himself, 
all alone. Why don’t you put Dot at a side 
table? Then Thomas and Lily could move one 
seat further down, and your brother-in-law could 
sit at your Icft,’^ 

2 


i8 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


‘‘That would not do at all. Brother William 
must sit in the post of honor, which is at my 
right hand. With Max at a side table, you and 
Morris could move one seat further down, and 
that would make a place for William. Then, 
too, I wish that you and Morris would change 
places, so that you would sit next to William, 
instead of Morris.’’ 

“Ah! I think I see what is troubling you. 
You imagine that this precious brother-in-law 
of yours might object to sitting next my husband, 
because my husband is a Jew.” 

“To be candid with you, Maria, that is ex- 
actly what I thought. Some people, you know, 
have scruples upon that subject. Now calm 
yourself, Maria, and don’t get so angry. Morris, 
I admit, is an exceptional member of his race, 
and his table manners, for the last year, at any 
rate, have been irreproachable.” 

“Sarah Carson!” cried her sister. “You are 
insulting. You are detestable. If this miracu- 
lously discovered brother-in-law of yours is 
half as much of a man as my Morris, which I 
doubt, you will have reason to be proud of him. 
I am going to my room, and I shall not come 
down to dinner. You may send me up a cup of 
tea, and tell Morris, as soon as he comes in, that 
I wish to see him. I want to find out whether 
he is content to pay fifteen hundred dollars a 
year, and to submit to such insults as you have 
just put upon us.” 

Saying this, Mrs. Rosenfeld, a short, buxom 


THE CARSON FAMILY 


19 


and rather comely woman of forty, put her 
handkerchief to her eyes and bustled from the 
room. 

“Well, of all the disagreeable and cantanker- 
ous people in the world,” exclaimed Mrs. Car- 
son, “my two sisters are the most disagreeable 
and the most cantankerous. I wonder what 
your Uncle William will think of them. I am 
sure that they will prejudice him against us. 
Amy, where is George? I didn’t see him go out.” 

“Perhaps he went up-stairs. I heard a foot- 
step on the stairs just now.” 

Now Amy, a few moments before, had heard 
a sound of tinkling glass, which seemed to come 
from the library. Twice, in the last day or two, 
she had surprised George in the act of taking a 
bottle and a glass from behind the books in one 
of the bookcases, and supposing now that he 
was engaged in the same operation, she had 
given her mother misleading indications of 
George’s whereabouts. 

Mrs. Carson now arose and passed, in a state- 
ly manner, out of the parlor and into the hall- 
way. She was a tall, black-eyed, queenly 
woman of fifty. Her cheek was still smooth, 
her wealth of silver-gray hair was coiled upon 
her head in the latest Parisian fashion, and she 
would have been handsome had she been less 
stout. 

After her mother had gone, Amy wrung her 
hands and dabbed at her eyes with a handker- 
chief. 


20 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


“Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “I wish they all 
wouldn’t quarrel so, and I wish that George 
would mend his ways. Perhaps, though, it will 
all be better when Uncle William comes.” 


CHAPTER II 

The Arrival of Uncle William 

Lydia Thorne packed her trunks that night; 
but she did not leave her sister’s house. Instead, 
she moved into the small room, next to hers, at 
the back of the hall. She meant to defer her 
departure until Uncle William had come, that 
she might satisfy her curiosity as to his appear- 
ance and his financial standing. 

On the afternoon of the twenty-sixth, Mrs. 
Carson, with George and Amy, repaired to the 
Forty-second Street Station, to meet Uncle Wil- 
liam. Presently, the four o’clock train came 
in. They were standing in the vast concourse 
or lobby, where they could watch the people 
streaming through the gates. They waited until 
the last passenger had come through; but they 
saw no one who looked as Uncle William should 
have looked. As they were turning away, dis- 
appointed, Mrs. Carson became aware that a 
man was standing at her very elbow. 

He was dressed in somewhat rusty and 
slovenly tweeds, and held a soft felt hat in his 
hand. He was of medium height and build, he 
had gray hair, a short, full beard of graying 
brown, and his spiritual face was illumined 
with an engaging smile. 

“Sarah!” said he, taking Mrs. Carson’s hand. 

21 


22 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


“Are you William Carson, my husband’s 
brother?” asked she. 

“I am your husband’s brother, Sarah.” 

“But how did you know us, William?” 

“Because you were evidently a mother with 
her two children. Because these two young 
people have such a striking resemblance to 
their father. These should be George and 
Amy. Thomas should be much older in ap- 
pearance.” 

He gazed for a moment at George and Amy. 
George was a tall, handsome youth, with a 
smooth, clean - cut face which, nevertheless, 
lacked somewhat in strength of character, and 
showed the telltale marks of dissipation. Amy 
was a tall, gracefully slender girl, with great 
heaps of brown hair, wonderful gray eyes and 
a countenance otherwise delightful to look upon. 

Uncle William took George’s hand, and 
gazed at him fixedly and steadily. It made 
George uneasy. He did not like Uncle Wil- 
liam’s look. There was something strange and 
out of the ordinary about it. It seemed to pierce 
him through and through, and read his inmost 
thoughts. 

“I am glad to see you, George,” said Uncle 
William. “We will talk together by and by.” 

George was glad when Uncle William re- 
leased his hand and turned his eyes away. The 
prospect of a talk with his uncle was somehow 
unpleasing to him. Uncle William now took 
both of Amy’s hands, and beamed upon her with 


ARRIVAL OF UNCLE WILLIAM 23 

a singularly winning smile. Unlike George, 
she felt no uneasiness, no dislike. Instead, a 
feeling of well being, of contentment filled her 
heart. She felt as if she had known Uncle 
William all her life. She was sure that she 
never wanted him to go away. 

“I see, Amy,” said he, ‘‘that you are one of 
those girls who speak with their eyes. Your 
eyes have already told me many things.” 

“What have they told you. Uncle William?” 

“Among other things, that you and I are 
going to be great friends.” 

“What else have they told you?” 

“That you are a good, amiable and con- 
scientious girl.” 

“Pshaw! Uncle William, how can one read 
such thoughts in a person’s eyes?” 

“It is not everyone who can, even in such 
eyes as yours. Your eyes express your very 
thoughts.” 

“Have you read George’s thoughts?” 

“Yes.” 

Mrs. Carson was now in a considerable 
hurry to be gone. She had been considering 
Uncle William’s clothing and general appear- 
ance. Her estimate of his wealth had fallen 
many degrees, and her hopes of pecuniary assist- 
ance from him had dropped correspondingly. 
She was fearful now that he would read her 
thoughts, as he had those of George and Amy. 

Uncle William now picked up a large, dilapi- 
dated, yelldw leather suit case which he had 


24 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


deposited upon the pavement, and the party 
moved out of the lobby and turned toward the 
cab stand. 

“I have engaged a taxicab,” said Mrs. 
Carson. 

“That,” said Uncle William, “was unneces- 
sary, as far as I am concerned. You see I always 
walk.” 

Mrs. Carson’s estimate of Uncle William 
fell another notch. 

The cab contained seats for four passengers. 
Mrs. Carson and Amy sat upon the back seat, 
and George and Uncle William faced them. 

“You do not look at all like my husband,” 
said Mrs. Carson. 

“No,” answered Uncle William, “we were 
always different.” 

“His hair was dark, and yours is somewhat 
light. He had black eyes and yours are gray. 
Then you haven’t his nose or mouth. I find it 
hard to believe that you are Thomas’s brother.” 

“How is it with you, Amy?” asked Uncle 
William. “Is it difficult for you to realize that 
I am your uncle?” 

“No, it is the easiest thing in the world. I 
knew you the moment I looked at you.” 

Amy’s eyes dwelt upon Uncle William’s face 
with an affectionate regard. 

“It is strange,” remarked Mrs. Carson, “that 
you and Thomas never saw each other all these 
years.” 

“Thomas,” replied Uncle William, “kneAv 


ARRIVAL OF UNCLE WILLIAM 25 

always where he could find me. I would have 
come to him at any time had he wanted me.” 

When the cab reached Mrs. Carson’s house, 
and its four passengers had alighted, Uncle 
William, as if it were a matter of course, paid 
the driver. He also gave him something beside. 
At this evidence of financial ability and liberal- 
ity, Mrs. Carson’s spirits again arose. When 
they were come into the house, Mrs. Carson led 
Uncle William through the two parlors, the 
dining-room and the library. Her face had a 
woe-begone expression. 

“I am positively ashamed to show you 
through my house,” said she. “Everything is 
in such a dilapidated and worn-out state. I am 
afraid you will think very poorly of us.” 

“I was thinking that your house was very 
good and beautiful, Sarah.” 

“Nonsense!” Just look at those rugs! They 
are ready to drop in pieces. If I have had those 
rugs one year, I have had them twenty. They 
were nothing but American rugs in the first 
place. They never wear, you know. I have 
just got to have new rugs. I would like large 
Oriental rugs for the two parlors and the dining- 
room, and an Axminster rug for the library. 
Do you think, William, that an Axminster rug 
would do for the library?” 

“T think very likely that it might” 

“Then look at the walls and the woodwork 
of these rooms. The walls haven’t been papered 
and the woodwork hasn’t been painted in ten 


26 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


years. Take a look at that paper! Isn’t it 
absurd?” 

“But, Sarah, those birds and flowers are ex- 
ceedingly pretty.” 

“But they are in very bad taste, and they are 
all out of date. They use nothing now but con- 
ventional figures. Now, about the woodwork. 
I was thinking of having it all done over in 
white enamel. That takes five coats, and is aw- 
fully expensive. What do you think of that kind 
of finish?” 

“I like it very much indeed. It will cer- 
tainly make the house very beautiful.” 

“Now, about the curtains. The front parlor 
curtains are absolutely nothing but rags, and 
those in the dining-room are the cheapest kind 
of Nottingham. I was thinking of getting 
Cluny or Marie Antoinette for both front and 
back. Do you like Marie Antoinette, William?” 

“I admire them very much indeed. There 
is nothing, to my mind, so exquisite and artistic 
for the house, as well as for women’s wear, as 
those fine, delicate cobwebby laces.” 

“I see, William, that you and I are going 
to agree perfectly about all these matters. But, 
oh, dear! I’m afraid it is all nothing but a 
dream. Where is the money to come from for 
all these improvements? Positively, I was 
never so put to it in my life for funds. Just at 
present my income barely suffices for the 
ordinary expenses of the household. I am surely 
crazy to talk of buying any of these things.” 


ARRIVAL OF UNCLE WILLIAM 27 

“Doubtless,” replied Uncle William, with 
what seemed a meaning smile, “a remedy will 
be provided.” 

Mrs. Carson was enraptured. Uncle William 
was certainly a man of money. Furthermore, 
she decided that he was a good soul, and that 
he might be easily led as she wanted. The 
occasion also seemed propitious, and she resolved 
to follow up her advantage. 

“I am in a quandary,” she said. “I am 
doubtful whether it would be advisable to spend 
so much money upon the house when Amy and 
I are in such urgent need of new wardrobes. 
I have worn this hat and gown so long that it 
has become a by-word with the neighbors. It 
is the same thing with Amy’s clothes. The poor 
child is just out in society, and she should have 
the prettiest of things. Her hat and suit are 
months behind the fashions, and they are the 
best she has, at that.” 

“Oh mother!” exclaimed Amy, who had just 
joined them, “how can you say such things? I 
am sure that I dress most becomingly. I like 
this suit amazingly, I have plenty of nice things, 
and I positively wish for nothing more at 
present.” 

“The most beautiful and costly fabrics in 
the world,” said Uncle William, “wrought 
with the finest and. most perfect skill, and in 
the most exquisite and graceful fashion, would 
be none too beautiful, fine and exquisite for 
Amy.” 


28 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


Mrs. Carson glanced at Amy, knowingly and 
triumphantly. 

‘^And now, dear William,” said she, will 
show you to your apartment.” 

Saying this, she led him into the front hall- 
way, and going up one flight of stairs, showed 
him into a large room at the back of the house. 

He gazed around the chamber. Mrs. Car- 
son had robbed the rest of the house to make it 
attractive. There was a rich, thick rug upon 
the floor, a blue silk coverlet upon the bed, and 
lace shams upon the pillows. The windows were 
hung with shades and damask curtains, lounges 
and easy chairs were disposed about the room, 
a number of fine pictures adorned the walls, and 
upon the top of the dressing bureau there was 
a large assortment of silver-backed brushes, 
combs, hand mirrors, and other utensils of the 
toilet. 

“I am afraid,” said Uncle William “that this 
chamber is altogether too grand and luxurious 
for me. I shall not feel to be myself in it. You 
see, I have been used all my life to very humble 
quarters. A six-by-eight room with a bare 
floor, perhaps a piece of matting upon it, a 
narrow wooden bedstead, a wash stand with 
bowl and pitcher, and a small looking glass 
nailed upon the wall. That is what I have been 
accustomed to.” 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Carson, “I 
know, of course, that you have roughed it for 
a great part of your life. That, however, is the 


ARRIVAL OF UNCLE WILLIAM 29 

more reason why you should spend your declin- 
ing years in the midst of the most pleasant sur- 
roundings and with the greatest amount of 
comfort. From this time forth, I propose to 
take you in hand, and to see that nothing is lack- 
ing for your ease and well being. This chamber 
has been occupied, up to the present time, by 
my sister Lydia. When we heard that you were 
coming, she insisted upon giving it up to you. 
‘You must remember,’ said she, ‘that he is your 
husband’s only brother. This is the best room 
in the house, and nothing is too good for him.’ 
Those were her very words.” 

“Your sister Lydia must be a very kind and 
self-sacrificing woman,” said Uncle William. 

At this moment from the hallway came a 
sound as of the slamming of a door. Mrs. Car- 
son coughed, and went to pass out of the apart- 
ment. 

“I must leave you now,” said she, as she stood 
in the doorway. “Dinner will be served at half 
past six.” 


CHAPTER III 
Skull and Crossbones 

After Uncle William had bathed and 
dressed, he took from his portmanteau two very 
old, very small and much worn books, and sat 
down by the window to read. One of these 
books was Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest,” a copy printed 
in 1690, while Richard Baxter was still living. 
The other was the Pilgrim’s Progress, printed 
in 1672. These two quaint volumes, bound in 
dilapidated rusty leather, were his most 
cherished possessions. He had at different times 
been offered large sums of money for them; but 
had refused to part with them at any price. 

At six o’clock, he laid the book aside, and 
descended to the lower hallway, where he was 
met by George Percival. Uncle William had 
put on black evening clothes for dinner. His 
cutaway coat was somewhat shiny and worn at 
the seams, and his cuffs were slightly fringed 
at the edges. On the whole, however, his ap- 
pearance was in good taste and quietly 
respectable. 

George led him to the back of the hallway, 
and into the library. When he had closed the 
door, and had seated Uncle William at the 
center table, he went to one of the bookcases, 
removed several books from an upper shelf, and 

30 


SKULL AND CROSSBONES 


31 


took from the cavity a bottle of whiskey, a 
syphon bottle and two glasses. 

“I thought, Uncle,” said he, “that we might 
have a short talk before dinner, and that a nip 
or two, meanwhile, might not come amiss.” 

“No, George, you must excuse me. I never 
drink anything stronger than water. I will, 
however, be glad to talk to you awhile.” 

George was somewhat disconcerted. He 
looked at Uncle William for a moment hesi- 
tatingly, then he mixed himself a high ball and 
drank it off, nonchalantly and deftly. George’s 
manner and appearance made it plain that this 
was not his first nip that evening. 

“And now. Uncle,” said he, “I want to tell 
you a few things about this delightful household, 
in which you have taken up your abode. This 
is a beautiful family, I don’t think. It would 
be like cruelty to children not to give you a 
few indications of what you are up against. In 
the first place, there is Aunt Lydia, mother’s 
elder sister. She is tall, angular and hard- 
featured. She is parsimonious to the last degree, 
as sour as vinegar, and has a tongue like a whip 
lash. She has an income of twenty- five hundred 
dollars, and she contributes seven hundred to 
the expenses of the household. She ought to 
give a great deal more, as she insists on having 
the best in the house, and she isn’t satisfied with 
that. She is a widow and she has one son, 
Victor Grosvenor Thorne. He lived here uj^ to 
a year ago, and then he graduated, Victor 1$ a 


32 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


high-stepper, a young gentleman of varied ac- 
complishments, and we were not in his class. 
He lives now, with another congenial spirit, in 
bachelor apartments, upon Riverside Drive. 
Victor is one of the head employees in a broker’s 
office down-town, a sort of a decoy, you know. 
He gets a salary of three thousand dollars, and 
spends five. He knows every handsome chorus 
girl in town, and the nigger who looks through 
the small round hole in the front door always 
lets him in.” 

“I am afraid,” said Uncle William, “that I 
do not follow you.” 

“Uncle, your education has been sadly 
neglected. I was speaking about gambling 
houses, where they play roulette and faro. They 
always have a small round hole in the front 
door. When anyone rings, a nigger pushes up 
the inside shutter of the hole and looks out. If 
he is satisfied with the man’s appearance, he lets 
him in. 

“I see, George. I hope that you never enter 
such disreputable places yourself.” 

“No, Uncle, they are something beyond my 
class. The bank only pays your humble servant 
a thousand dollars a year, and I have to content 
myself with playing the ponies.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by playing 
the ponies. I should judge though, from the 
very name of it, that it must be a harmless and 
innocent amusement.” 

“Sure, Uncle, nothing could be more so. But 


SKULL AND CROSSBONES 


33 


I was speaking of Victor. Somehow or other, 
he manages, in the course of a year, to get from 
his mother the rest of her twenty-five hundred 
dollars. How he does it, I don’t know; but he 
does it. When he comes to dine with her, which 
he does once a month or so, we all know that he 
needs money very badly. If he didn’t, of course 
he wouldn’t come. While he is here, he doesn’t 
waste his opportunities. He makes love to Lily 
when he is not otherwise employed.” 

“Who is Lily?” 

“Why, don’t you know, Uncle William? 
Lily is Brother Thomas’s wife. Before she was 
married, her name was Lily Smith, and she was 
a stenographer in the offices of the Manhattan 
Biscuit Company, where Thomas is bookkeeper. 
She is a good-looking girl; but vain, silly and 
uneducated. She never had anything before she 
was married. So, of course, she wants every- 
thing now. Thomas gets fifteen hundred a year, 
and contributes a thousand to the household 
fund. He therefore has very little left to spend 
upon Lily in the way of dress, theatres and the 
like. Consequently, she is discontented, envious 
and ill-humored. Poor old Thomas is a dull, 
hardworking, unenterprising grind, and will 
never get out of the rut in which he is working. 
He is the last man to have a wife like Lily. 
When Victor is here, she flirts with him openly. 
It is a joke to see them ogle each other. A num- 
ber of times I have caught them talking together 
in dark corners. Once I saw him kiss her, 

3 


34 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


Thomas, the poor, commonplace, unimaginative, 
purblind fool, is the only one who hasn’t noticed 
it. He wont know anything about it until she 
runs away with Victor.” 

“But the thing is an outrage,” exclaimed 
Uncle William. “It will have to stop.” 

“How will you stop it? By telling Thomas?” 

“Thomas is the last one to be told. Never- 
theless, it shall be stopped.” 

“I haven’t spoken to you yet. Uncle, about 
Aunt Maria, mother’s younger sister. She hung 
around until she was thirty-odd, waiting for 
someone to marry her. As no one seemed to 
want the privilege, she became desperate, and 
married a Jew named Morris Rosenfeld. They 
have a seven-year-old imp of a son, named Max, 
and they also live in this rabbit warren of a 
house. Morris isn’t bad for a Jew, and he puts 
up fifteen hundred dollars toward the expenses, 
which is something more in proportion than the 
others. He is an office-holder of the city govern- 
ment, something in the department of public 
works. He gets three thousand dollars salary, 
and what he can squeeze out of the contractors. 
Morris is what they call an advanced Jew. He 
doesn’t go to the synagogue, or keep the Jew 
feasts, and he eats ham and bacon. Before he mar- 
ried Aunt Maria, he lived on the East Side. He 
always carried his precinct at the primaries and 
upon election day, and he carries it now. Morris 
says that he has a number of Jew citizens there 
whom he votes five or ten times apiece in a day.” 


SKULL AND CROSSBONES 


35 


“But that is against the law, is it not?” 

“I suppose it is, Uncky; but how, otherwise, 
could he hold down his office in the department 
of public works? I must tell you a few things 
about Mother. There isn’t really much to say 
about Mother. The principal thing is that she 
has an income of two thousand dollars a year, 
and tries to make a show like five thousand. 
With Mother it is always what people say and 
think. She never goes beyond that, and she 
doesn’t care about anything else. Dad bought 
this large house some years before he died, and 
put a mortgage on it for as much money as the 
house would sell for. If she would sell the 
house and hire a small flat, we might be com- 
fortable and easy. That, however, would be too 
much of a come-down for Mother. She insists 
on keeping up the old barn, and in order to do 
it, she gets this infernal menagerie together, and 
makes a regular Noah’s ark of it. I must tell 
you how she got the two thousand dollars a year. 
It will make you laugh. That was Dad’s last 
stroke of business, and it was certainly a hummer. 
Say, Uncky, Dad was some artist, believe me.” 

“You surprise me, George. I never knew that 
your father did anything in the way of art. What 
was his particular province, painting, sculpture 
or music?” 

“Uncle William, your mind must be wander- 
ing. Dad didn’t know one tune from another, 
and he couldn’t tell a water color from an oil 
painting. He wasn’t that kind of an artist. 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


36 

What I meant was that he could trim people 
artistically. His motto was to do other people 
before they could do him. Do you get me?” 

“I think that I understand you, George.” 

“Well, I was going to tell you how mother 
got her two thousand dollars a year. For the 
last five years of his life. Dad was an agent for 
the People’s Provident Savings Life Insurance 
Company. The principal business of this com- 
pany is to issue policies of fifty, one hundred 
and two hundred dollars to poor people. They 
sell these policies upon the instalment plan, and 
collect from the holders ten, twenty-five, or fifty 
cents a week, according to the size of the policy. 
When the aforesaid poor people get sick or lose 
their employment, they can no longer pay the 
premiums, and the policies become null and 
void. This happens in ninety-nine cases out of 
a hundred. You can therefore see that the busi- 
ness of the company is a very profitable one. 
It was Dad’s affair to sell these policies and to 
collect the ten, twenty-five, or fifty cents a week. 
He had for his share about a quarter of every- 
thing he collected, which wasn’t so bad, as far 
as it went. Dad, though, was a man who was 
always on the lookout for big things. Accord- 
ing to his ideas, the company was nothing but 
an organized band of robbers, and he saw no 
reason why he shouldn’t rob them in turn. Dad 
had heart trouble, and knew that he couldn’t 
live over two or three years at the outside. He 
therefore took out a policy of twenty thousand 


SKULL AND CROSSBONES 


37 


dollars with the company which employed him. 
To do this, it was necessary to grease the ways. 
Perhaps he slipped two or three of the medical 
examiners a hundred dollars apiece. Who 
knows? When Dad died, the president of the 
company, a sleek, fat, very respectable old sinner, 
found out that he had heart trouble, and refused 
to pay the policy. Now here is where Dad’s 
smartness comes in. He had been careful to 
retain a lot of letters, receipts, and one thing 
and another, relating to the dealings of the 
People’s Provident Savings Life Insurance 
Company with the poor people. Before he died, 
he gave these documents to Mother, and told her 
to threaten the company with their publication, 
in case they refused to pay. It worked like a 
charm. When she notified them that she had 
the papers, and told them what they were. Old 
Simpson, the president, made a bee line for her 
house. The sweat poured down his face, his 
hands trembled, and he couldn’t hand the money 
over fast enough. That’s the way Mother got 
her two thousand a year, and you see I wasn’t 
wrong, when I said that Dad was a slick 
artist.” 

“George,” said Uncle William, I am ex- 
tremely sorry to hear you tell these things about 
your father. I regret that you should talk of 
him as you do. You evidently have very little 
respect for his memory. Do you not remember 
your father as he was when you were a child of 
four or five?” 


38 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


“Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I? What 
has that to do with it?” 

“How did your father seem to you when you 
were a little child? Was he not to you every- 
thing that was fine and kind and splendid and 
noble, a sort of a prince, a king or an emperor?” 

“Yes, I suppose he was. I thought he was 
about as good and big as they make ’em.” 

“Then, George, when you think or talk of 
your father, think of him and talk of him as 
he was when you were a child, as he was before 
he became worn and tired and hardened and 
discouraged. I have noticed that you are very 
prone to speak ill of people. In all your talk 
to-night about your relatives, there has been no 
single word of commendation. It has pained 
me greatly.” 

“Y ou wouldn’t have me lie about them, would 
you?” 

“There is no need of it. If you can’t speak 
well of them, say nothing at all. That is a good 
rule.” 

While George had been talking. Uncle 
William had drawn' the whiskey bottle toward 
him, had picked up a pencil from the table, and 
was sketching, or scribbling upon the white 
label. He now replaced the bottle in the place 
from whence he had taken it. George picked 
it up, and was about to pour himself another 
drink, but paused, with staring eyes, and hang- 
ing jaws. 

“Wha-what’s that?” he stuttered. “Say, 


SKULL AND CROSSBONES 39 

that’s awful bad taste, you know. What did yuh 
do it for?” 

He put the bottle down without pouring a 
drink. Uncle William had drawn upon the 
label a perfect and startling picture, of a death’s 
head and cross bones. 

“It is only something that the designer forgot 
to put on the label,” said he. 


CHAPTER IV 
Uncle William’s Gold Mine 

George’s mother now came to the library 
door and called Uncle William into the back 
drawing room, where he found the rest of the 
family assembled, and awaiting the announce- 
ment of dinner. He crossed over at once to 
Thomas and his wife and shook their hands 
heartily. 

“I knew you at once, Thomas,” said he. 
“You are the image of your father when he was 
your age. I am delighted to see you and de- 
lighted to meet your wife. You have chosen 
a beautiful woman for your helpmate, and of 
course she is as good as she is comely.” 

Dot was holding her mother’s hand. Uncle 
William raised her from the floor and kissed her. 

“Dot,” said he, “I am your great-uncle. We 
are going to be good friends, and we will have 
fine times together.” 

“You are not such a big uncle,” said Dot. 

“Great-uncles are not always big. Dot.” 

Uncle William was now introduced to Morris 
Rosenfeld, Mrs. Rosenfeld and Max Rosenfeld. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Rosenfeld,” said he, “I have 
heard much of you, and I look forward with 
much pleasure to our better acquaintance.” 

He put his hand upon the boy’s curly head. 

40 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S GOLD MINE 41 


know,” he continued, “that Max and I are 
going to know each other very well. He is an 
uncommonly fine boy and seems to favor both 
of you. Max and Dot and I are going to have 
some famous games, and I am going to tell them 
some wonderful stories.” 

“Mrs. Thorn,” said Uncle William, when he 
was made acquainted with that prim and austere 
lady, “I am sincerely glad to know the sister of 
my brother’s wife. I hope that you are well, and 
that your son is also. I am much desirous of 
meeting him at no distant period.” 

Uncle William had now greeted all the 
members of the family whom he had not pre- 
viously met. His remarks to them had been 
simple and commonplace; but there was some- 
thing of sincerity and gentle courtliness in his 
tone and manner which had made a most favor- 
able impression. ' 

“I think,” said Morris Rosenfeld aside to 
George, “that your uncle is some man, what! 
I think I’m going to like him.” 

“He would be a good deal better if he had 
a drop or two of sporting blood in him.” 

“Never mind that sporting blood, George. 
That makes not always the best man. You have 
it yourself, not so? I do not see that it has done 
so much for you.” 

Dinner was now announced by a servant. 
Uncle William offered his arm to his sister-in- 
law, and the two led the way to the dining room. 
Mrs. Sarah Grosvenor Carson sat at the head 


42 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


of the table; on her right, in order, were Uncle 
William, Mrs. Rosenfeld, Mr. Rosenfeld and 
George Percival, on her left were Thomas 
Grosvenor, Mrs. Carson, the younger. Dot and 
Mrs. Thorne. Amy sat at the foot of the table. 

The dinner served in honor of Uncle William 
was an excellent one. In fact, it was a better 
dinner than ever before had been served in the 
house. There were clams upon the half shell, 
soup, fish, entrees, roast, dessert, coffee and 
cheese. A waitress carried around the dinner 
in tureens and platters and helped the diners 
in turn. She commenced always with Mrs. 
Sarah Grosvenor Carson, then she helped Uncle 
William, and from Uncle William went to 
Thomas Carson, on the opposite side of the table. 
In this way, she alternated, first upon one side, 
then upon the other, until she had reached the 
foot of the table. This was a wise and happy 
arrangement which had been instituted for the 
purpose of avoiding unpleasant faultfinding 
and bickering. When, however, the waitress 
arrived at the foot of the table, there was usually 
not much choice or quantity of viands remain- 
ing. For this reason, no one cared to sit at the 
foot of the table, and Amy had always taken 
that place, because she was an amiable girl and 
a girl of a self-sacrificing nature. 

Uncle William now looked around and saw 
that the boy. Max, was sitting alone at a small 
table alongside the wall. The urchin had a 
sullen and rebellious look. 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S GOLD MINE 43 

“Hullo, Max!” exclaimed Uncle William, 
“I see that they have put you in the post of 
honor. That is the very place where I would 
like to sit. I am going to ask your Aunt to let 
me sit with you sometimes. It would be great 
fun.” 

The boy laughed, and presently was eating 
with great good humor. 

Uncle William did not touch his oysters, 
soup or fish. He contented himself with celery, 
bread and some round, Parisian potato balls 
which xame with his fish. 

“Why, William,” exclaimed his sister-in-law, 
presently, “you are not eating your dinner. You 
seem to have no appetite. I am afraid that you 
are not well.” 

“Sarah,” answered he, “I am feeling very 
well and I have a good appetite. I do not like 
to make myself conspicuous and show myself 
different from other people; but, since you have 
called attention to me, I see that I will have to. 
The fact is that I am a vegetarian.” 

Lily Smith Carson tittered, the other mem- 
bers of the family gazed at Uncle William as if 
they thought him a very queer specimen. 

The elder Mrs. Carson made a mental cal- 
culation as to the lessened cost of boarding Uncle 
William on account of his abstaining from 
meat, fish and fowl. The result, evidently, was 
satisfactory, for she smiled a satisfied smile. 

“I suppose,” remarked Mrs. Thorne, “that 
you do it on account of your health. I have 


44 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


heard it said by some people that vegetarians 
live longer than other people. Do you think 
that that is true?” 

“I do not know,” answered Uncle William. 
“To tell the truth, I am not a vegetarian on 
account of my health. I am a vegetarian only 
because I do not want any living creature killed 
that I may eat. If I should eat meat, fish or 
fowl, I could not help thinking all the while 
of the pain and fright of the poor creatures 
when they were killed. Once I was walking 
along the edge of a wood, and I saw a hunter 
shoot a rabbit. The poor, small animal turned 
a summersault, and then tried to crawl into the 
wood. He had such a look of fear and agony 
that it moved me to the heart. Presently his 
eyes glazed and he lay still. I have never for- 
gotten it.” 

Uncle William looked around the board as 
if expecting to find glances of sympathy for the 
rabbit. There were none. The expression upon 
the different faces should have told him that his 
story was regarded as being in very bad taste. 
There was one exception. 

“The poor, poor little creature!” exclaimed 
Amy. 

“Uncle William,” remarked Thomas Car- 
son, presently, “I understand that you have 
spent the greater part of your life in the far 
West. In what state were you located, and what 
was your principal line of business?” 

“I had no particular headquarters, Thomas. 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S GOLD MINE 45 

I was a sort of a nomad, wandering here, there 
and everywhere. Neither was I engaged for 
long in any settled business. I was in the habit 
of turning my hand to anything which came my 
way. In the last year, though, I was located 
in a town named Boulder, in the State of 
Colorado. While I was there, I had a very 
singular experience, and it was this experience 
which finally determined me to bid good-bye 
to the Western states. Some eight months ago, 
I had fifty thousand dollars to invest, and I 
decided to put the money into a gold mine. I 
had never dipped into gold mines before, and 
I wanted to see what they were like.” 

Uncle William mentioned the sum of fifty 
thousand dollars as if it were the merest trifle. 
At once every one at the table was all attention. 
Mrs. Sarah Grosvenor Carson glanced at the 
expectant faces upon each side of the board with 
a proud and superior air, as if she would call 
attention to the fact that this was her brother- 
in-law who was talking. 

“It being noised about,” continued Uncle 
William, “that I was going to put fifty thousand 
dollars into a gold mine, I had many appli- 
cations from people who wanted to sell their 
mines. It was astonishing how many mines 
there were for sale. Among others, there came 
to me three men, named Brown, Smith and 
Robinson. These three men owned a half in- 
terest in a mine near Cripple Creek, called the 
White Horse Mine. This mine was capitalized 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


46 

at two hundred thousand dollars. There were 
forty thousand shares at five dollars each. They 
owned twenty thousand and a man named White 
owned the other twenty thousand. This Mr. 
White was in poor health, and wished to sell 
his share in the mine and go east to live. It was 
a paying mine, and though the shares were 
worth something more than par, he offered to 
sell them, if they were sold to one person, at 
five dollars each. I was impressed favorably 
by the fact that Smith, Brown and Robinson 
did not wish to sell their own shares. They 
simply wished me to buy Mr. White’s interest. 
Upon my raising the objection that I only had 
fifty thousand dollars to invest, and that Mr. 
White’s shares would cost one hundred thousand, 
they told me that I could borrow the other fifty 
thousand dollars at the bank, by putting up the 
twenty thousand shares of stock as collateral. 
I enquired about this matter and, finding that 
it was an everyday occurrence, and the usual 
and recognized way of arranging such matters, 
I bought the hundred thousand dollars worth 
of stock of Mr. White, borrowed the fifty 
thousand dollars of the bank, and put up the 
stock as security. We now held a meeting of 
the stockholders, and elected six directors of 
the company, of which I was one. The directors 
then got together and elected Mr. Robinson, 
President, Mr. Smith, Vice-president, and Mr. 
Brown, treasurer. I was very well satisfied with 
this arrangement, as I knew nothing about min- 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S GOLD MINE 47 

ing, and they knew all about it. Very soon after 
this, the gold production of the mine began to 
fall off. Upon enquiring the reason, I was told 
that the vein had narrowed appreciably, and 
that a lot of water had got into the mine, which 
rendered the working of it difficult. In a few 
days the president of the bank sent for me, and 
told me that the stock of the White Horse mine 
had gone down from par to seventy cents on 
the dollar. He also told me that he would have 
to sell out my stock, if it went much lower. I 
asked him what made the stock go down, and 
he said that it was because someone was selling 
it. When I asked him who was selling it, he 
told me to ask Brown, Smith and Robinson. 
I went to see these gentlemen; but they denied 
that they had sold any, and showed me that 
the certificates for the whole twenty thousand 
shares were still in their possession. When I 
saw the President of the bank again, I told him 
what I had learned; but he did not seem con- 
vinced. From his talk I found out that people 
can sell stock and yet not sell it. They call 
these sales Vash sales,’ and they do it by match- 
ing orders. A man will order a broker on the 
stock exchange to sell say two thousand shares 
of a certain stock at seventy. At the same time, 
he will order another broker to buy two thousand 
shares of the same stock at seventy. This is 
what Brown, Smith and Robinson had been 
doing. They had sold the stock to themselves. 
Also, each day, they had sold it at a lower price. 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


48 

At this moment, the President of the bank was 
called to the telephone. When he came back, 
he informed me that the stock of the White 
Horse mine had gone down to fifty cents on the 
dollar, and that my stock had been sold at that 
figure. It seems that, in order to protect the 
interests of the bank, he had sent my shares to 
his broker, with orders to sell them, if they 
should go down to fifty. I then asked the 
banker what was coming to me, and he answered 
that nothing was coming to me. I then asked 
him if he knew who had bought my twenty 
thousand shares, and he again told me that I 
had better see Brown, Smith and Robinson. 
When I saw these gentlemen, they owned up 
quite readily that they had bought my twenty 
thousand shares. They were very merry about 
it, said that they had observed that my eye teeth 
hadn’t been cut, and that they had thought they 
might as well do it as any one else. Well, I 
went home and sat down and thought the matter 
out. The more I thought about it, the more 
humorous the whole thing looked to me. I 
began to laugh, and I laughed and I laughed. 
I never had had such a good laugh before. 
These three men had taken every dollar I had 
in the world; but they had been so ingenious 
and so skillful about it, that I could not help 
but admire them.” 

Uncle William with a seraphic smile upon 
his countenance, looked around the table, ex- 
pecting that everyone would join with him in 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S GOLD MINE 49 

his appreciation of the humor of his experience. 
He was mistaken. They did not do so. Upon 
the faces of those present were varying looks of 
anger, mortification, astonishment, satisfaction 
and triumph. Mrs. Sarah Grosvenor Carson’s 
face became red and then white, Lily Smith 
Carson again tittered, Mrs. Thorne sneered 
audibly, Morris Rosenfeld leaned forward upon 
the table and stared at Uncle William as if he 
were an animal of some strange species, George 
Percival swore under his breath. 

“How long ago was this?” asked Mrs. Sarah 
Grosvenor Carson, presently, in a cold and 
ominous voice. 

“About a month ago,” answered Uncle 
William, guilelessly. “After such a disillusion- 
ment I determined to come east and spend the 
rest of my days in peace and quiet. The west 
was no place for me. The people out there are 
altogether too shrewd and knowing.” 

His sister-in-law now arose, thus giving the 
signal that the dinner was at an end. She turned 
and passed out of the dining-room, without 
waiting for or noticing Uncle William. The 
rest of the family, with the exception of Amy, 
followed her example. Amy came and took 
Uncle William’s arm, and piloted him, with an 
affectionate manner, into the drawing room. 


4 


CHAPTER V 
Saint Peter and the Baron 

Mrs. Sara Carson went upstairs to her room, 
and shortly afterward sent for Amy. George 
Percival left the house, and the other five grown 
people began to arrange for a game of bridge. 
They did not ask Uncle William to join them. 
It was just as well that they did not, as he knew 
no single game of cards. 

Being left absolutely to his own resources, 
and the assembled company having shown him 
hy their manner that they could very well get 
along without him, he went softly along the 
hallway and up the stairs to his chamber. He 
now procured one of his favorite volumes, and 
then, as there was no reading light in his room, 
he descended again to the first floor, and going 
into the library, lighted the electric table lamp, 
and sat down to read. 

After he had read for a half hour, he heard 
the front door bell ring, and the front door open 
and shut. Then steps came along the hallway, 
the library door opened, and Amy, followed 
by a young man, entered the library. He was 
a tall, straightbacked young man with a smooth 
and pleasant face. 

“Why, Uncle William,” exclaimed Amy, 
“I didn’t know that you were here. We will go 

50 


SAINT PETER AND THE BARON 51 

somewhere else, so as not to hinder your 
reading.” 

“Amy,” said Uncle William, with a mock 
severity, “there are some things which are more 
important than reading. Therefore, it is I who 
will go somewhere else.” 

“Uncle William, you will do nothing of the 
kind. In the first place, I want to introduce 
you to my friend, Mr. Edward Snow. Edward, 
this is Uncle William, the uncle which I have 
been talking about.” 

Edward Snow took Uncle William’s hand 
with a good firm grip. He was a hearty, likable 
sort of fellow, and the old gentleman returned 
the clasp with interest. 

“Snow, Snow,” exclaimed Uncle William. 
“That is a good old English name. Years ago 
I knew several families of that name in this 
city and in the vicinity. There were the Robert 
Snows, who were bankers, and the James Snows, 
who were clothiers. Also, there were the Staten 
Island Snows, and the Long Island Snows. It 
does not happen, does it, that you come from 
either of these families?” 

“Oh, dear no, not a bit of it,” answered Snow, 
laughing. “I came from a small village, up 
State, in Jefferson County, about five years 
ago.” 

“That is good. If it were not for young 
men like you coming here all the time from the 
country, and giving us new vitality, we would 
soon be in a poor way. I hope that you have 


52 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


prospered in what you came for. You certainly 
look as if you had.” 

‘‘I haven’t done so badly. I am in the 
druggist and apothecary business. I served my 
apprenticeship in my home town and here, I 
have my diploma, and since a year past, I have 
had a small store of my own on Sixth Avenue, 
near Thirty-ninth Street.” 

“That is fine. I am glad that you told me. 
When one wants medicine, one wants it in a 
hurry, and your shop is not so far away. I 
shall know where to go.” 

Uncle William now took his book, and 
moved toward the door. 

“Uncle William!” cried Amy. “You are 
not going. I positively forbid it.” 

“It is my duty to go,” answered he, with a 
meaning smile. “When duty calls, I always obey. 
One is only young once, and the privileges and 
customs of youth should be held sacred.” 

Amy blushed, and Edward Snow grinned. 
Uncle William went out of the door, and closed 
it, carefully. He passed along the hallway and 
looked into the front parlor. It was dark, ex- 
cepting for the light which came through the 
sliding doors from the back parlor. The two 
children, Max and Dot, were standing in the 
gloom, looking out of the window into the 
street, with their noses pressed against the 
glass. There was a large easy chair near the 
window. Uncle William went to it, and sat 
down. 


SAINT PETER AND THE BARON 53 

“Now, Dot and Max,” said he, “we will 
have some stories.” 

The children received the announcement 
with joy. Amy was the one who usually enter- 
tained them. Her young man had come, and 
they had been taught by their parents to banish 
themselves at such times. They were conse- 
quently lonely and depressed in spirits. Uncle 
William took Dot upon his knee, and had Max 
sit upon a stool beside him. Then he told them 
a fairy story. 

“Now,” said he, after he had finished with 
it, “I will tell you another kind of a story. 
This is not a fairy story.” 

“Is it a really and truly story?” asked Dot. 

“Yes, it is a really and truly story. It has 
happened many times. Perhaps the people were 
not all of them always the same; but that makes 
no difference. This story is about Saint Peter, 
the Baron, the boy and the top.” 

“Whose top was it?” asked Dot. 

“Silly!” exclaimed Max. “It was the boy’s, 
of course. Saint Peter and the Baron wouldn’t 
have a top.” 

Uncle William then commenced to tell the 
story, and this is it: 

Baron of Brieg and Waldeck by the sea, 

And Lord of Harburg and of Glatz was he. 

In his domain ten thousand acres lay, 

Ten thousand souls were subject to his sway. 

His form was portly and his look severe. 

His speech sententious and his morals clear. 


54 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


Proud of his lineage, prouder of his gold, 

Each day he grew more stern and stiff and cold. 

Hard toward the poor but princely when it came 
To some great charity which bore his name. 

And so he grew to three score years and ten. 

Honored by church and state and praised of men. 

At this point, Uncle William paused. 

“That story,” announced Max, with an air 
of superior wisdom, “is in poetry.” 

“I am afraid,” said Uncle William, “that 
competent judges would not say so.” 

“Is that all there is of it?” asked Dot, con- 
temptuously. 

“No, that is only the beginning. This is the 
rest of it:” 

The baron from his castle came one day. 

Mounted his great white horse and rode away, 

Rode to the town to judge and regulate 
A dozen matters of important weight. 

There was a widow to be dispossessed, 

A poacher beaten till the rogue confessed. 

There was a vacant prebend to be filled, 

A meeting of a charitable guild. 

There was a debtor to be put in jail. 

And goods of others sold at sheriff’s sale. 

’Twas Autumn and the fields were sere and brown, 

As the old Baron rode away to town. 

With proud content he gazed upon the land 
Which, far as eye could see, on every hand. 

Forest and valley, river, plain and hill. 

Was his outright or subject to his will. 

At last, while passing through a leafless wood, 

He came to where a lowly cabin stood. 


SAINT PETER AND THE BARON 55 

And there upon the moss-grown porch he spied 
A little barefoot boy who sobbed and cried; 

A ragged child, blue-eyed, with head of tow 
Who looked the picture of distress and woe. 

The baron paused a moment and called out: 

“Hey! what’s this pother and this noise about?” 

“Father’s a-chopping trees,” the urchin said, 

“Off somewhere in the wood and mother’s dead. 

I have no toys, there’s no one here to play 
And I am lonely by myself all day.” 

“Ho! nonsense! fudge!” the baron cried and then 
Whipped up his steed and cantered on again. 

Arrived in town, a busy day he spent. 

Then homeward turned with virtuous content. 

Hard by the city gates he drew the rein. 

For a strange whim had crept into his brain. 

With furtive mien he sought a dingy shop 
And spent a penny for a wooden top. 

Now faintly red the dying sunset glowed. 

As once more through the darkening wood he rode. 

He reached the cabin and the urchin still 
Sat, a quaint, lonely form upon the sill. 

The baron held his steed and flung the toy 
Upon the well worn path before the boy. 

“Here, boy, take that!” he cried. The urchin took 
The top and held it with a puzzled look. 

Then the great baron, with impatient frown 
And no light trouble, from his horse got down. 

Laid to one side his bag and riding crop. 

And taught the wondering child to spin the top. 

Which done, he left him on his play intent; 

Mounted his steed again and homeward went. 

That night the baron died, and, strange to tell. 

That very night the urchin died as well. 

Along the shadowy way to heaven they passed. 


56 OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 

The man in front the youngster coming last. 

The baron was so big, the child so small, 

The baron never saw the boy at all. 

At Heaven’s gate the baron cried, “What, ho!” 

And struck the portals a resounding blow. 

Then, as there came no answering sound, once more 
He cried aloud and beat upon the door. 

At last a footstep sounded from afar, 

Then came the clank and groan of bolt and bar. 

The door swung inward for a narrow space. 

And the small opening showed St. Peter’s face. 

“Who are you and what would you here?” asked he. 
“I am the Lord of Brieg, as you may see. 

Why this delay? Quick! Fling the portals wide! 
For Fm in haste and I would pass inside.” 

Saint Peter barred the way, austere and grim. 

“Nay, not so fast,” ’twas thus he answered him. 
“Folks do not take the door of Heaven by storm. 
But enter with bowed head and suppliant form. 

And furthermore, the man who enters here 
Must have his title reasonably clear. 

For this we now will add up your account. 

And see to what your rightful claims amount.” 

Then turned St. Peter to an aged clerk 
Who, standing near, was bending o’er his work. 
“Take down,” said he, “the book wherein is writ 
The baron’s record and examine it.” 

The clerk reached upward to a shelf and took 
And spread upon his desk a mighty book; 

He found the baron’s page with trembling hand 
And every line meticulously scanned. 

Then down another and another page. 

Went slowly, till it seemed a very age. 

“Well,” said St. Peter, “If your task is through, 

Add every page and strike a balance true; 

Then tell me how the baron’s record stands, 

And what amount of credit he commands.” 


SAINT PETER AND THE BARON 57 

“’Tis useless quite,” the weary clerk replied, 

“There’s not an item on the credit side.” 

“Ho, ho,” the baron spoke, “Your books are wrong. 

I’ve walked a godly path my whole life long. 

I held high office both in church and state, 

I was a deacon and I passed the plate, 

I built a church, endowed it with my rents. 

Founded a college, reared at vast expense 
A convent. Far and wide extends the fame 
Of the great charities which bear my name.” 

“Aye,” said the aged clerk, “the man is right. 

These things are written here in black and white.” 

“Then,” spoke the baron, “If my words are true. 

Fling wide the portals, please, and let me through.” 

“Nay,” quoth the Saint. “These deeds of pomp and pride 
Are charged against you on the debit side.” 

This said, he now prepared to close the gate. 

But, as the baron turned disconsolate, 

St. Peter spied the small boy standing near. 

“Ho, boy!” cried he, “whence and how came you here?” 
“I came from earth, the way I could not find ; 

I saw the man and followed on behind.” 

“What have you in your hand?” the one you hide 
In the torn pocket hanging at your side?” 

“A top.” “A top? WTio gave it to you, now?” 

“The baron gave it me.” “Where, when and how?” 

The boy then told him how the cottage stood. 

Cheerless and bare within the leafless wood. 

And how he sat there, sad, the livelong day, 

And saw the baron come and ride away. 

Then how he came again and brought the toy. 

And taught him how to spin it. When the boy 
Had told his tale, “Good Lord!” St. Peter cried, 

“My soul is vexed, my patience sorely tried. 

Look you!” he thundered at the trembling clerk, 

“Is this the way that you perform your work?” 

Search once again with most exceeding care, 

For this important entry should be there.” 


58 SAINT PETER AND THE BARON 

The clerk once more the mighty volume took, 

And scanned its pages with an anxious look. 

His palsied finger down the columns passed, 

Until the missing item showed at last, 

Upon the credit side, grotesquely small, 

Down at the end of the last page of all. 

“Well,” spoke St. Peter, “’tis a margin thin. 

But this poor, single credit lets you in.” 

Then were the gates of Heaven wide open thrown ; 

The baron took the boy’s hand in his own. 

And chastened, contrite, sad and humbly wise, 

Passed through into the streets of Paradise. 

“Uncle William,” asked Dot, after he had 
finished. “Did Saint Peter let the boy take the 
top into Heaven with him?” 

“Of course he did. Why should he not?” 

“And did the baron and the boy spin the 
top when they were in Heaven?” 

“No, it wasn’t necessary. When the boy got 
into Heaven, he found a lot of other children 
there to play with; so he didn’t have to trouble 
the baron about it.” 

Amy, whose young man had gone, and who 
had stolen into the room unobserved, and had 
sat in the further corner, and listened to the 
story, now spoke. 

“Oh, Uncle William,” said she, “why did 
you not let me know that you were going to tell 
a story, and particularly such a story as that? 
I would have had Edward stay and listen to 
it. That story is for grown-up people as well 
as children. There is no one but would be the 
better for hearing it. You must tell it to him, 


SAINT PETER AND THE BARON 59 

the next time he comes. I will take it as a favor. 
I will be infinitely obliged.” 

“Amy, one word from you is enough, and 
it shall be as you say. Between you and me 
there shall be no talk of favors and obligations.” 

Just then the sliding doors between the front 
and back parlors were pushed apart, and Mrs. 
Carson, the elder, appeared in the opening. 

“William Carson,” she exclaimed, “why 
have you kept Dot and Max up so late? It is 
half past nine. You should know better. Be- 
sides that, you have interfered with our game 
with your continuous droning talk. I myself 
have made several errors. Amy, take the 
children to bed at once.” 

Saying this, Mrs. Carson closed the doors 
with a bang. 

“Come to bed, children,” said Amy, extend- 
ing her hand. 

“I will come, too,” said Uncle William. 

He lifted Dot to his shoulder, Amy took 
Max by the hand, and thus they went upstairs. 


CHAPTER VI 
A Readjustment 

After breakfast, the next morning, Mrs. 
Carson, the elder, called Uncle William into 
the library. 

“There is something which I must talk to 
you about,” announced she, after she had closed 
the doors. “It is a very disagreeable subject. 
I scarcely know how to begin.” 

“Without doubt,” said Uncle William, “it’s 
disagreeable quality lies only in your imagi- 
nation. Let me know what is troubling you, 
Sarah dear. I will warrant that you are making 
a mountain out of a mole hill.” 

“It is about my sister, Lydia, William. You 
will recollect my telling you that she had given 
up her room to you.” 

“Yes, I recollect it, and I have been thinking 
ever since what a dear kind soul she must be.” 

“She is all that and more. She changed 
from the room which you are occupying to the 
small one adjoining it, at the end of the hall. 
Now Lydia is some years older than I, and she 
is not as strong and as well as I would like to 
have her. She has always been used to certain 
luxuries and conveniences, and I can see, though 
she has said nothing about it, that the change 
from her large, light, airy room to such cramped 

60 


A READJUSTMENT 6i 

quarters has had a most depressing effect upon 
her. I noticed it at breakfast this morning. She 
was not as bright, or as cheerful as usual. She 
really had a sort of faded and drooping look.’’ 

“Sarah, I am delighted that you have spoken 
to me about the matter. I am also extremely 
sorry that I have discommoded your dear sister. 
How thoughtless of me to accept such sacrifice 
and abnegation! The matter must be remedied 
immediately. She must have her room back at 
once. Sarah, put me anywhere you want. The 
smallest, poorest chamber in the house is suffi- 
cient for my needs.” 

“William, you have taken a great weight 
from my mind. I thought that you might object. 
You have certainly made my task much less 
disagreeable.” 

“Sarah dear, why should I object? I did 
not come here to incommode you and the rest 
of the family, or to give you trouble. I came, 
rather, to make all your lives pleasanter and 
more agreeable. I suppose, Sarah, that you 
have already settled upon the chamber which 
I am to occupy. Have the kindness to show it 
to me, and I will get my few things together 
and change at once.” 

“Very well, William. I will, at least, say 
this for you, that you seem to be of an accom- 
modating nature.” 

Mrs. Carson led the way up-stairs to the 
second story, then she proceeded to the third 
story, and finally to the fourth story. There 


62 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


was a little hall bed room at the top of the 
stairway, in the back of the house. Into this 
she took Uncle William. 

“This is the room I had thought of,” said she. 

The chamber was about eight feet by ten in 
size. It had one window which looked out upon 
the back yards of the neighborhood, and upon 
the roofs of the houses in the next street, it con- 
tained a small wooden bedstead, one straight- 
backed chair, and a wooden wash stand, with 
pitcher and bowl. Above the wash stand upon 
the wall there was a looking glass about ten 
inches square. There had been lace curtains 
upon the window; but Mrs. Carson had re- 
moved them, leaving nothing but the shade. 
She had also taken a silk counterpane from the 
bed, and had put an old rug upon the floor in 
place of the comparatively new one which had 
been there before. 

Uncle William’s face radiated with satis- 
faction and pleasure. 

“This chamber is certainly delightful,” ex- 
claimed he. “I know that I shall enjoy myself 
here immensely.” 

Mrs. Carson thought, at first, that he was 
speaking sarcastically. 

“Are you really satisfied with it?” she asked. 

“I certainly am, Sarah dear. Nothing could 
be more cozy and home like. It has several 
advantages over the one down-stairs. In the 
first place, it is such a room as I have always 
been accustomed to. I shall feel more like my- 


A READJUSTMENT 63 

self here. Your sister’s room is altogether too 
grand and luxurious. I felt really very much 
out of place in such a chamber. In the second 
place, it is vastly quieter here. I always go to 
bed at nine o’clock, and I shall sleep the sleep 
of the blessed. Last night you were playing 
cards until eleven, and your talking kept me 
awake. Your voices were low, and I could 
scarcely hear you; but I was worried all the 
time with the thought that you were modifying 
your tones upon my account.” 

Uncle William went to the window, raised 
the shade, and opened the sash. 

‘‘How cool, crisp and fine the air is!” he 
exclaimed. “It is undoubtedly much more pure 
up here than upon the level of the second story. 
And what a view! I can see all the back yards 
in the block. I can see shrubs and grass and 
flowers, and trellises with grape vines. Even 
the clothes hanging upon the lines are interest- 
ing. From looking at the clothes, I can tell how 
many and what kind of people there are in the 
different families. There is also a fine view of 
all the roof tops opposite. Do you see the white 
and black cat, with a black nose, sitting upon 
yonder coping? Hasn’t he a smug and self satis- 
fied look? There are also lots of sparrows upon 
the eaves. I shall feed them. I love to feed 
birds, dogs, cats, squirrels and other small 
animals. The poor, helpless creatures are al- 
ways hungry. They never get enough to 
eat.” 


64 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


Uncle William now descended to the second 
story, got his things together into his suit case, 
and carried them to his new chamber. He ar- 
ranged such of them as he could upon the wash 
stand, stowed the rest in the wash stand drawer, 
and in the space beneath, and set his suit case 
upon end for a table. He now found that he 
had left one of his two favorite books down 
stairs the night before, and he descended to fetch 
it. After searching vainly in the front parlor, 
he went through the back parlor, to reach the 
library. As he was about to enter, he saw Lily 
Smith Carson come into the library from the 
hallway. Evidently she did not see him; for 
she went to one corner of the room, where the 
telephone stood, picked up the telephone, and 
put the receiver to her ear. 

“Give me five, six, eight, one, Cortland,” 
said she. “Hullo! is this Horton and Field? 

I want to speak with Mr. Thorne.” 

She spoke in a low tone of voice, so low that ' 
he could not have heard her words, had he not 
stood immediately outside the open library door. 

“Is that you, Victor?” she continued. “How 
are you? Oh, I feel first rate now, though I 
had a beastly headache last night. Say, he isn’t 
coming home to lunch to-day. You know whom 
I mean. Will you? That’s good. I shall ex- 
pect you. Listen! Do you remember the rich 
uncle I was telling you about? He came yester- 
day, arid oh! it is such a joke. I am dying to 
tell you about it. Dear mother-in-law is furious. 


A READJUSTMENT 65 

and Aunt Maria and Aunt Lydia are filled with 
unholy joy.” 

Uncle William stole through the parlor to 
the front hall, and silently ascended to his room. 
Five minutes afterward, he came down again, 
took his hat from the rack, and left the house. 
Lily Smith Carson was still talking as he did so. 

Uncle William was away from the house all 
the morning. When he returned, he found Mrs. 
Carson, the elder, sitting upon one of the stone 
copings of the porch. She was evidently await- 
ing him, for she motioned him to take a seat 
upon the opposite coping. 

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “I am so glad 
that you have come. I have been waiting for 
you a half hour, and it was absolutely necessary 
for me to see you before luncheon. I am in 
trouble again. It seems to me that I get out of 
one predicament only to find myself in another.” 

“I hope,” said Uncle William, soothingly, 
“that your present difficulty is no more serious 
than the one you spoke of this morning. Let 
me know what it is, and we will make short 
work of it.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so. I am glad, 
at any rate, that you show a disposition to come 
half way to meet me. The trouble now is with 
Morris, sister Maria’s husband.” 

“Sarah, I am grieved to hear that there is 
something wrong with Mr. Rosenfeld. Can I 
do anything to help you out in the matter?” 

“Yes, William, you are the only one who 


5 


66 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


can set matters straight. Of course you know 
that Morris is a Hebrew. On that account he 
is unusually sensitive. He always thinks that 
people are trying to put upon him, because of 
his nationality. Unfortunately I have been 
chosen by the rest of the family to regulate all 
the matters of the household; so that the brunt 
of everything falls upon me. I thought that I 
had matters all nicely arranged, and now we 
are all up in the air again. Morris has always 
sat next me upon my right hand. So that you 
could have the post of honor, I put Max at the 
small table and seated Morris in his son’s place. 
I see now that Morris and Maria feel deeply 
slighted, and I don’t know how I can arrange 
matters without placing you somewhere else and 
seating Morris in his old place.” 

“Sarah dear, why do you make so much out 
of a trifle? My first thought is to oblige you, 
and you must know that I would be willing to 
sit anywhere.” 

“I have thought, William of putting you at 
the foot of the table. If Morris takes your place, 
George could move up to where Morris sits 
now, and Amy could occupy George’s chair, 
next to you and at your left hand.” 

“That would be delightful, Sarah. I will 
be opposite you and next to Amy. I can’t think 
of anything pleasanter. Say no more about it. 
The matter is arranged.” 

That noon Thomas Carson did not come 
home, also, by a singular chance, Victor Thorne 


A READJUSTMENT 67 

came to lunch with his mother. He always 
seemed to come when Thomas was absent. Dot 
sat in her father’s place and Victor took Dot’s 
place. This brought him between his mother 
and Lily Smith Carson. Victor was a tall, well- 
dressed, smooth-faced, dark-haired and dark- 
eyed young man. He looked like a hero of the 
moving pictures, such a one as the girls keep 
in their minds and follow from theatre to theatre. 

Uncle William was only two seats removed 
from Victor, and the old man could not but 
notice the intimacy which existed between him 
and Lily Smith Carson. On several occasions 
it seemed to him that the two might be holding 
hands under the table. 

“I hear, Mr. Thorne,” said Uncle William 
presently, “that you are a broker. Many 
things, good and bad, have been said about 
brokers, and I must confess that the most that 
I have heard about them has been to their dis- 
advantage. I suppose though that there are 
honest men among them, as there are in all other 
kinds of business.” 

“I am afraid that you have been misin- 
formed,” replied Victor, with a surreptitious 
wink toward the persons at his right. “There 
are probably more honest men among the 
brokers than in any other profession. In our 
business honesty is the first requisite. In fact, 
no broker may be admitted to the board unless 
he is thoroughly and superlatively honest.” 

“You astonish me, Mr. Thorne. I am very 


68 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


much pleased to find that I have been in error, 
and I own that I stand corrected. It being then 
a fact that honesty is the one chief requirement 
of your profession, why is not that profession 
an ide^l one for our youth? Then again, if 
young men are honest in business matters, as 
they would have to be if they were members 
of your profession, they are likely to be honest 
in all the other affairs of life. A great many 
people do not realize that the command ‘Thou 
shalt not steal’ refers to other things beside 
property.” 

Mrs. Lydia Grosvenor Thorne had ignored 
Uncle William up to that moment. 

“I think,” said she, with a scornful look, 
and with acid tone, “that it is exceedingly dis- 
honest for an able-bodied man to live at the 
expense of his relatives.” 

“Such a man,” asserted Uncle William, “is, 
without doubt, a very dishonest character.” 

Shortly after luncheon. Uncle William went 
out. When he returned to the house, which he 
did at six o’clock, he was met in the front hall- 
way by the elder Mrs. Carson. 

“Oh, William,” she exclaimed, “I have 
another favor to ask of you. I am absolutely 
ashamed of myself; but I can’t help it.” 

“Sarah, you must not speak of anything I 
do for you as a favor. It is always my duty 
and pleasure to meet your wishes, whatever they 
may be.” 

“It is this, William. My sister Maria is 


A READJUSTMENT 69 

a very soft-hearted creature. Max is her only 
child and she is like a hen with one chicken. 
She has been feeling very sad about having 
Max sit all alone by himself at the side table. 
She was crying about it this afternoon. She 
is afraid the little fellow will not eat. Could 
you not take his place for a little while, and 
let Max sit in his own seat? His mother will 
feel so much better. It will be only until we 
can get another leaf for the table. Then there 
will be room for all of us.” 

“Of course,” answered Uncle William, with 
a pleasant smile, “I will take the boy’s place. 
Why should you make such a great thing out of 
it. I assure you, Sarah, that I shall enjoy myself 
there. And now, my dear sister-in-law, since 
everything is arranged so happily, how much 
shall I contribute to the general fund? How 
much shall I pay toward the household expenses? 
What amount do you think is right?” 

Mrs. Carson was very much astonished that 
Uncle William should offer to pay anything. 
She had supposed him altogether without means. 
She pondered a moment, and the idea came to 
her that he would depart from the house, if she 
set the figure high enough. 

“I think,” said she, “that five hundred dollars 
a year would be about right. That would be 
about ten dollars a week. Of course, you will 
understand that this is no boarding house. Far 
from it. We have simply assembled ourselves 
together in this large house, because we love 


70 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


each other. We wish to be near each other, 
and we each contribute of our means an equit- 
able sum for the common good.” 

Uncle William drew out a shabby pocket 
book, and took from it a worn and disreputable 
ten dollar bill. 

“Here is for the first week,” said he. “It is 
certainly not more than my share. It is alto- 
gether cheap and reasonable.” 

Mrs. Carson could see that the pocket book 
contained nothing more than the one bill, and, 
for a moment, she had a twinge of conscience. 

“Are you sure,” asked she, “that you can 
afford it? Are you sure that you are not robbing 
yourself?” 

“Nonsense, Sarah. Do not worry about me. 
You must not suppose, just because I lost a lot 
of money, that I am absolutely without means. 
Besides, I am going into business. I expect to 
have all the money that is necessary, not only for 
my own needs, but for the helping of my friends 
in a small way.” 

“But what kind of business can you expect 
to get into, William?” 

“I do not know yet. I was looking around 
this morning, and all the afternoon. I have 
really had several propositions. I am going to 
decide to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Carson looked at him doubtingly and 
pityingly. She evidently did not believe much 
in the possibility of his going into business. 

That night Uncle William sat at the small 


A READJUSTMENT 71 

table beside the wall. He did not join in the 
conversation. He contented himself with nod- 
ding, winking and smiling at the two children. 
Max in a whisper asked permission of his mother 
to sit with Uncle William; but was sternly re- 
pressed and silenced. 


CHAPTER VII 
A Prescription for Amy 

That night, Edward Snow came again to call 
upon Amy. Amy left Uncle William with the 
two children in the front parlor, and took 
Edward into the library. After remaining there 
but five minutes, the two came forth again. They 
passed along the hallway, without speaking to 
each other, and Amy let Edward out of the front 
door. Then she ran hastily up the stairs. At 
nine o’clock she came down and took the 
children to bed. She was subdued and silent 
and her eyes looked as if she had been crying. 

The next morning at breakfast she ate 
scarcely anything. She had a downcast look 
and answered in monosyllables. The rest of the 
company did not notice her unusual behavior. 
They were too much taken up with their own 
affairs. Uncle William noticed it, because he 
was thinking about her, and had been thinking 
about her, since the night before. After break- 
fast, he waylaid her craftily in the library. 

“Now, Amy child,” said he, “tell me all 
about it.” 

“All about what? Uncle William,” she 
asked, with an innocent air. 

“Tell me what you have been crying about, 
and why you are so sorrowful.” 

72 


A PRESCRIPTION FOR AMY 73 


She laughed a scornful little laugh. 

“Why, Uncle William, the idea is ridiculous. 
However could you think any such thing?’’ 

“Amy, you must not pretend any longer. You 
act and look as if you had lost your only friend. 
Also, you have been crying. Anyone with half 
an eye can see that. I have put two and two 
together, and I can make a good guess as to 
what has happened. Yesterday afternoon, you 
were radiantly happy. It seemed as if you ex- 
pected to go somewhere with somebody. At 
dinner you were preoccupied. Things had evi- 
dently not come out as you expected. Edward 
was here last night but five minutes. When he 
went, you did not even bid each other good- 
bye. Amy, you and he have had a quarrel.” 

Amy tried to laugh again; but there was a 
curious little catch in her voice. 

“Nonsense, you dear good old uncle!” she 
exclaimed. “You are imagining all sorts of 
things.” 

“Amy,” demanded he, severely, “where is 
your engagement ring? You had it at dinner 
last night. Where is it now?” 

The girl hung her head and dabbed at her 
eyes with a tiny handkerchief. 

“Do you care to tell me?” asked he, very 
gently. “What is it all about?” 

“Oh, Uncle William,” sobbed she, “I can’t, 
I can’t.” 

“Very well, child. I will not urge you. 
Nevertheless, be of good cheer. I have a con- 


74 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


viction that things will come out all right.” 

He squeezed her hand and patted her upon 
the shoulder. 

‘‘Dry your eyes and wait awhile,” said he, 
“I have a feeling that tomorrow will see a 
wonderful difference in the state of affairs. 
That young man is a good young man. I could 
see that at once. Where the man is good, and 
the girl an angel, there can be no permanent 
disagreement.” 

After Uncle William had left her, Amy 
felt a vague sort of consolation. Things did not 
look nearly as dark as before she had talked 
with him. She thought that after all there might 
be something left in life. There was something 
soothing and hopeful about Uncle William, 
some indescribable quality which made itself 
felt for good in the inmost recess of her heart. 

That morning. Uncle William went down 
town again, and, upon his return, visited the 
drug store of Edward Snow. That young man 
was standing behind his prescription desk, he 
was pale and listless, and it seemed as if he had 
passed a sleepless night. 

“Good morning, Edward,” said Uncle 
William. 

It did not seem strange to the young man 
that he should be addressed by his first name. 
Old age usually has its privileges, and besides. 
Uncle William was somehow different from the 
rest. One seemed to feel, at the very first, that 
one must have known him a long time. 


A PRESCRIPTION FOR AMY 75 

‘‘There is trouble up at our house/’ continued 
the old gentleman. “One member of our family 
is in a bad way.” 

“I am very, very sorry to hear it. What is it? 
Is there anything that I can do?” 

“Yes, you can do a great deal. That is the 
reason I came to you.” 

“Then someone must be sick. Which one 
of the family is it, and what is the malady?” 

“I am sorry to say that it is heart trouble.” 

“That is most serious. Have you called a 
physician?” 

“No, not yet. I want you to fill a pre- 
scription.” 

“But that is irregular. You must first get 
a physician. You should get one at once.” 

“In this case I am the physician. I am 
thoroughly conversant with these cases. A 
medical man is not necessary.” 

“That is a very foolish thing to say. I must 
insist that you get a doctor at once. You haven’t 
told me yet who the person is?” 

“It is Amy.” 

“Amy!” exclaimed the young man, dis- 
tractedly. “Why didn’t you say so before? I 
shall telephone a doctor at once.” 

“Wait, until you have heard my pre- 
scription.” 

“What is it?” asked Edward, impatiently. 

“The prescription is that you come up and 
see Amy to-night.” 

From the expression upon the young man’s 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


76 

face, it might be seen that a sudden light had 
come to him. 

“Oh,” he exclaimed. “I would love to do 
it, more than anything in the world; but I can’t, 
I can’t.” 

“Nonsense! it will be the easiest and most 
natural thing in the world. The poor girl, as 
I said before, has heart trouble. In the face of 
it, can you refuse to see her?” 

“But she told me last night that she never 
wished to see me again.” 

“What of that? Young ladies, nine times 
out of ten, say what they do not mean. Now, 
Edward, I would like to set this matter straight. 
What a foolish, senseless thing it is for you two 
young people to part, when you love each other 
so much! There can be no just reason for it. 
Am I not right, when I say that there is no 
just and adequate reason for it?” 

“Yes, at the bottom there is really no reason 
for it.” 

“I knew that I was right. Now, Edward, 
do you wish to tell me the whole story? You 
need not, unless you wish. If you tell me any- 
thing, it shall go no farther, without your per- 
mission.” 

“I do not know why I should not tell you. 
The fact is, besides, that there is a strange some- 
thing about you which makes me wish to con- 
fide in you. Yesterday afternoon, Amy and I 
had arranged to go to the matinee, at half past 
two. When it lacked but a little of the hour, 


A PRESCRIPTION FOR AMY 77 

an unlooked for matter of business of a family 
nature, came up, which made it impossible for 
me to keep the engagement. I, therefore, wrote 
a note to Amy, and told her that I couldn’t go. 
Now it seems that, the night before, when I 
was calling upon her, I had left upon the library 
table a copy book, or memorandum book, which 
was filled with prescriptions, such prescriptions 
as one comes across here and there, and which 
may not be found in books. After my messenger 
had come and gone, Amy chanced to remember 
the book, and thinking that I might be put to 
inconvenience for the want of it, she determined 
to bring it to me herself. When she came to 
my store, she found only the boy, who told her 
that I had gone home but a minute or two before. 
Deciding then to follow and overtake me, before 
I reached my house, she hurried up Sixth Avenue 
to Forty-third Street, which is the street where I 
live. When she turned the corner, she perceived 
me, a hundred yards or so ahead of her. I had 
with me a handsome young woman who carried 
a baby. Presently, I took the baby and carried 
it myself. Meanwhile, Amy was following us. 
When we came to my boarding house, the young 
woman and I went up the steps and passed in. 
Amy then went home. I am certain of all this, 
partly from what I know myself, partly from 
what the boy told me, and partly from what I 
learned of Amy. When I saw Amy last night, 
she received me in a cold and ungracious man- 
ner, she even refused to let me kiss her. She 


78 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


told me what she had seen, and asked me who 
the young woman was. I was ashamed to tell 
her. I would rather have told anyone else than 
Amy. I did not wish her, of all beings, to know 
of the dishonor of my family. I assured her 
that I was blameless in every way; but she be- 
came, every moment, more pressing and per- 
sistent. Finally, she took off her ring and gave 
it to me, saying, at the same time, that she never 
wished to see me again. Then she went to the 
front door and let me out and I came away.” 

“Edward,” said Uncle William, gently, “I 
believe you when you say that you are blameless 
in every way. You need not tell me, unless you 
wish, who the young woman was.” 

“But I will tell you. Somehow it seems good 
for me to tell you. She is my brother Dick’s 
wife. Rather, she ought to be his wife. You 
know what I mean.” 

Edward Snowblushed like agirl as he said this. 

“I am sorry to say,” continued he, “that my 
brother Dick is not what he should be. He 
drinks, and he has gone away, and left her 
destitute. I wrote her, sent her money, and 
asked her to come here. My landlady is a good 
woman, and has known me for years. I told 
her the whole story, and she consented to take 
Lucy in, as the wife of my brother. The poor 
child wants to do something for her living, and, 
because I think it would be best for her, I have 
been thinking that she might help at the soda 
fountain in my shop.” 


A PRESCRIPTION FOR AMY 


79 


^‘Edward,” exclaimed Uncle William, “you 
are a man after my own heart. I cannot allow 
Amy to lose such a husband. You will go and 
see her to-night, of course?” 

“Do you really think I might?” 

“Certainly, she will expect you. I will 
attend to that.” 

“You surely will not tell her about Lucy?” 
asked the young man, apprehensively. 

“I will tell her nothing besides the fact that 
you are a very good young man, and that every- 
thing is as it should be.” 

That night, Edward Snow came to see Amy. 
He remained a very long time. When he went. 
Uncle William had been abed about two hours 
or more. In the morning, Amy came down 
stairs radiantly happy. She met Uncle William 
in the hallway, threw her arms about his neck 
and kissed him. 

“You dear, kind Uncle William,” she cried. 
“You have made me the happiest girl alive. 
What would I have become, had it not been for 
you?” 

“Nonsense! I could have done nothing if 
Edward had not been the man he is.” 

“He told me everything,” said the girl softly. 

“I knew he would.” 

“I did not want him to tell me. It was not 
necessary. I told him so. When he was telling 
me, I saw how badly he felt about it. It made 
me cry, and I loved him all the more,” 


CHAPTER VIII 
Blessed Are The Merciful 

It was Saturday afternoon, and Morris 
Rosenfeld was sitting in the library, smoking 
and reading the newspaper. The city offices 
closed at twelve o’clock, noon, upon Saturdays, 
and this was his usual way of spending the half 
holiday. Presently, Uncle William came into 
the room. Morris yawned and flung down his 
paper. Time hung heavily upon his hands. He 
wanted to talk with someone, and Uncle William 
was better than no audience at all. 

“Uncle William,” said he, “to-day is the 
best day of my life. This morning I got what 
I have been looking for for a long, long time. 
Look at me! Do I seem like a happy man, yes?” 

“You certainly have a most cheerful air, 
Morris. I hope, with all my heart, that your 
happiness is real, and that it will be lasting.” 

“And what for should it not be? To-day, 
and from now on, I get my revenge on a man 
what I hate like I hate the devil himself.” 

“The spirit of revenge and hate,” said Uncle 
William, gently, “will bring no true happiness. 
It is neither moral, lovely or satisfactory. You 
will surely hurt yourself more than you hurt 
your enemy.” 

“That is all very well when you put up a talk ; 
but there is nothing so good as when you succeed 
to get even with a fellow, who has sometime put 

80 


BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL 8i 


it all over you. Listen, Uncle William, and I 
will tell you what there is to the business.” 

“I am listening.” 

“There’s an old Irishman, named Martin 
Guilfoyle, who lives over in the Sixth Assembly 
District, the place I came from, before I came 
here. He’s a contractor and has some money. 
Now this old fellow, he always hated me, and 
whenever he could to do it, he did me hurt, both 
in and out of politics. Then he ends it up, about 
four years ago, by cheating me out of three hun- 
dred and fifty dollars. It was an old trick, and 
I should to have kept my eyes open ; but I didn’t. 
He puts an advertisement in a newspaper, which 
he knew I read every night, like this: “Will pay 
fifty cents on the dollar for stock of the Hoboken 
Light and Fuel Gas Company. Harris & Co., 
56 Broadway, New York.” 

“Now he knows that I know that he has some 
of those Gas Stock shares already, and that’s 
what for he put the advertisement in the papers. 
I go around to him like a lamb what wants to be 
sheared, and I says to him, sort of casual and 
oflhand like: ‘Martin,’ says I, ‘didn’t you say, 
one time, that you had some of that Hoboken 
Light and Fuel Gas Stock?’ 

“Yes,” says he, “and I got it yet.” 

“What’s it worth?” says I. 

“I don’t know,” says he. “They have been 
making money lately. I guess it’s worth some- 
where around thirty.” 

“Then it must have taken a awful jump,” 


6 


82 OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 

says I. “Since a year, it was selling around 
five cents.” 

“That may be,” says he, “but I wouldn’t sell 
mine at less than twenty-five. They been mak- 
ing a lot of money.” 

“How many shares you got?” says I. 

“Twenty,” says he. 

“I’ll give you ten cents on the dollar for the 
lot,” says I. “I know a fellow what has eighty 
shares, and he wants to even it to a hundred.” 

“Never, on your life,” says he. 

“Well, we talked it for an hour or more, 
I making believe, all the time, as I didn’t care 
much about it anyhow, and finally, I bought the 
twenty shares at seventeen and a half cents, 
which made them come to three hundred and 
fifty dollars. I pay the old man the money, 
then I took the certificate down to 56 Broadway, 
laughing to myself like anything, all the way 
down town, thinking how I got the best of that 
old Irishman. When I gets down there, there 
wasn’t any Harris & Co., and there never had 
been any Harris & Co. Then I saw mighty 
quick as I had been skinned alive by that old 
rascal, and the skin nailed to a post. 

“I went back and saw old Guilfoyle, pretty 
quick, you bet, and asked him to give my money 
back; but he only laughed me in the face, and 
what you think he says? Just this: “When a 
Irishman beats a Jew, he does the work of God.” 
Then I went to a lawyer, and he says it was no 
use to do anything; because I couldn’t prove that 


BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL 83 

old Guilfoyle put the advertisement in the paper. 
That was four years ago, and every time I see 
that old thief, he grins at me; so that I want to 
push him the face in.” 

“But all the time, I says to myself: “Just 
wait, and I wait and I waited. About six months 
ago, I get onto something, which made me to 
think that I get me even with him. Old 
Guilfoyle has a son, named Tony, what is a sort 
of sport, a gambler and a souse. He gets himself 
into all kinds of scrapes, and it costs his father 
a lot of money to get him out of ’em. Well, I 
fixes it up with a fellow, named Silverman, who 
is a friend of mine, and who knows Tony, to 
lend him five, ten, twenty dollars; so that Tony 
thinks that Silverman is dead easy. Pretty soon, 
Tony comes to him, and wants to borrow four 
hundred dollars. 

“If I don’t get it,” says he, “it’s all up with 
me, and I’m a goner.” 

“What you think I am?” says Silverman. 
“I got no four hundred dollars, and if I had. 
I’d be all sorts of a fool, to lend it to you, with- 
out that you gave me security.” 

“What security do you want?” says Tony. 

“Get your father’s name on the note,” says 
Silverman, “and I’ll try to get you the money.” 

“What sort of a line of talk you giving me?” 
says Tony. “You know my father, and you 
know how that would be harder to get him on 
that note than the president of the United 
States.” 


84 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


“I’ll tell you what to do,” says Silverman. 
“You get Morris Rosenfeld on the note, and 
I’ll get the money. Morris is an easy mark, 
and I know he’ll do it.” 

Well, Tony goes away, and comes back next 
day with his note for four hundred dollars, and 
my name on the back of it, which, of course, 
I never signed, and Silverman let him have the 
money.” 

“Day before yesterday that note came due, 
and was protested. I got the notice of protest 
yesterday morning, paid the note, right off, 
quick, and wrote Martin Guilfoyle a letter, like 
this: 

“I had to take up a note this morning, at the 
East River National Bank, for four hundred 
dollars, made by your son, Tony, with my name 
on the back of it, which I never wrote. What 
you going to do about it?” 

When I got to my office this morning, at 
ten o’clock, old Guilfoyle was there, waiting for 
me. He’d been there a half an hour already, 
the sweat was pouring down his face, and he 
looked like as if he’d run all the way from 
Thirty-fourth Street. 

“I’ve come,” says he, sort of genial like, 
“to take up that note.” 

“No, you’re not,” says I. 

“What do you mean?” says he. 

“I mean this:” says I, “four years ago, you 
swindled me out of three hundred and fifty 
dollars. When I complained about it, you said 


BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL 85 

that a Irishman who could beat a Jew, does 
the work of God. Now it’s my turn to do the 
work of God. Your son has forged my name, 
and I’m going to have him sent over the road 
for it.” 

“Morris,” says he, and he tried to force a 
laugh out of his throat, “that was all a joke. 
I meant all the time to pay you back. I’ll take 
up the note, and I’ll pay you the three hundred 
and fifty dollars with interest to date.’” 

“You will not,” says I. 

Then he began to offer me more money, one, 
two, three, four, five hundred dollars. 

“It’s no use,” says I, “I wouldn’t make to 
let you off for ten thousand dollars.” 

“The old man then went all to pieces. He 
got down on his knees, he wept and he wrung 
his hands. To get rid of him, I got up and left 
him. Never have I had such a good time, since 
I was born.” 

“It seems to me,” said Uncle William, 
calmly and judicially, “that you are equally 
culpable with Martin Guilfoyle and his son. 
When he cheated you, you were trying to cheat 
him. You thought that you were buying his 
stock at less than it was worth. You thought 
that you were getting the better of him on ac- 
count of his ignorance of its value. It seems to 
me that you were no better than he. You also 
were very reprehensible in setting a trap for the 
young man. Had you not set the trap, he would 
not have forged your name. You and your 


86 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


friend Silverman entered into a conspiracy, by 
means of which, young Guilfoyle was led to 
commit a crime. I think, though I am not sure, 
that the penalty for such a conspiracy is as 
heavy as that for the forgery itself.” 

“That may all be; but, when you fight the 
devil, you have to use it the devil’s weapons.” 

“Not necessarily. There are other weapons 
which are better. I am firmly of the opinion, 
taking into consideration the fact that you are 
equally to blame with the Guilfoyles, that your 
just, kind and honorable course is to take what 
money is rightfully yours, and let the boy go.” 

“That would be to laugh. How then would 
I get it my revenge?” 

“You have already had your revenge.” 

“How have I had it?” 

“You had it when you refused the old man’s 
offer this morning. At that time, he reached the 
limit of his suffering. A man sorrows most in 
the anticipation of his misfortune. If you press 
the matter to the end, and put his son in prison, 
you will do a thing for which he has already 
fully suffered. His feelings will become dulled 
and unresponsive, and he will be more or less 
resigned to the calamity. Furthermore, you will 
not enjoy this revenge as you think you will. 
It will pall upon you, and become wormwood 
in your mouth. It will react upon you. It will 
degrade you and sear your soul.” 

“Am I a fool then, that I should throw away 
my revenge?” 


BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL 87 

“As I said before, you have already had it. 
It is a misfortune for you; but what is done 
cannot be helped. Is this man, Martin Guilfoyle, 
a Christian?” 

“I suppose so. He goes to Mass every 
Sunday.” 

“Do you think that the Jews, as a people, 
are as good and religious as the Christians?” 

“What for should I not think so? Sure they 
are?” 

“Would you like to show the world, not only, 
that the Jews are as good as the Christians; but 
that some Jews are better .than some Christians? 

“Sure I would. It is only the truth ; but how 
would I make to prove it?” 

“By taking from Martin Guilfoyle only the 
amount of your note, and the three hundred and 
fifty dollars, with interest to the present day, 
and by letting his son go. In doing this, you 
will truly get your revenge. Religion teaches 
us that the sweetest revenge is in doing good to 
those who have done us an injury.” 

“That seems to me to be a foolish thing. 
There is nothing like that in our religion.” 

“There is, but you have not found it. In the 
New Testament, the book of the Christians, you 
will find such principles more clearly stated. 
Have you ever read the New Testament?” 

“I have not; but I will read it some day. 
I am not a fool, that I am afraid it would change 
my religion.” 

“You may read it with profit, even though 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


it does not change your religion. In the New 
Testament it says also : ‘Blessed are the merciful, 
for they shall obtain mercy,’ which means that 
a man who is merciful to his fellow men will 
receive mercy from God at the last day. Again 
it says: ‘For if ye forgive men their trespasses, 
your Heavenly Father will also forgive you. 
But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, 
neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.’ 
These are some of the cardinal principles of 
the Christian religion, and though, as I said 
before, they are not so expressly stated in your 
bible, nevertheless, they are there; so that a Jew 
may not be a conscientious believer unless he is 
merciful and forgiving. I have shown you, 
Morris, that you have been equally culpable 
with the Guilfoyles. I have shown you that 
you have already had your revenge, and that 
to press your advantage further will bring you 
disappointment and degradation. I have spoken 
to you of some of the maxims of the Christian 
and Jewish religions. You must acknowledge 
that these maxims are just and true and beautiful. 
By them you are commanded to be merciful, 
and to forgive your enemies.” 

“What do you say, Morris? Will you do 
with these Guilfoyles, father and son, as I have 
asked you?” 

“I will think about it.” 

“Will you promise to think about it, earnestly 
and attentively?” 

“Sure I will. Say, Uncle William, I think 


BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL 89 


that I am getting to like you a lot. If all 
Christians were like you, I should begin to be- 
lieve that there was some truth after all in the 
Christian religion.” 


CHAPTER IX 
Thomas Carson’s Speculation 

Sunday morning, Uncle William, Amy and 
the two children went to a small church which 
stood upon a cross street, a few blocks to the 
north of the Carson house. After the services 
were finished, they walked up to Central Park. 
Here, Amy and the children sat upon a bench, 
while Uncle William, who had brought some 
crusts of bread in his pockets, fed the birds and 
squirrels. Within a few moments after he had 
strewn some crumbs upon the ground, a large 
concourse of small creatures had gathered about 
him. His audience consisted of four doves, two 
squirrels and half a hundred sparrows. Finally 
these small pensioners became so tame, that the 
squirrels ran up his clothing and perched upon 
his arms, and the birds circled about and took 
the crumbs from his fingers. At the last, he 
alternately fed a dove which clung upon his 
shoulder, a sparrow which sat upon his thumb, 
and another which stood upon the top of his 
head. He was like the bird charmers which 
one sees in the public gardens of Paris and 
London. 

“This,” said he, to Dot and Max, “is what 
you can do with these little friends of ours, if 
you are kind to them and get their confidence.” 

90 


THOMAS CARSON’S SPECULATION 91 

After luncheon, that day, Uncle William 
took Mrs. Sarah Carson apart. 

“My dear Sarah,” said he, “I have some 
important news. I have gone into business. I 
commence tomorrow morning. It is a profitable 
venture. I thought that you would like to 
know it.” 

The look upon Mrs. Carson’s face gave 
evidence of her pleasure. She made a mental 
calculation of the profit which would accrue 
from Uncle William’s ten dollars, and the result 
seemed to be most satisfactory. 

“I am very glad to hear it, William,” said 
she. “At the same time, I can’t see for the life 
of me, how you managed to get hold of some- 
thing in such short time. I doubted very much 
that you would be able to find anything. What 
is the business? I am of course most anxious 
to know.” 

“That, Sarah dear, must remain a secret, 
at least for the present. Several weighty reasons 
prevent me from telling you about it just now. 
In due course of time, however, you shall know 
all. There is a peculiarity about this business 
which may seem strange to you at first. My 
working hours are from two until eight in the 
morning. I shall leave the house at one o’clock 
and will return at nine. I hope that this will 
not incommode you.” 

“Why, William, what do you mean? What 
sort of a business is it which requires you to 
keep such hours? It does not seem to me that 


92 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


it can be respectable. What will the neighbors 
say to see you going out at one o’clock in the 
morning and coming back at nine? They will 
take you for a burglar, at least.” 

“It will not be often that they will see me 
go. Folks are not usually up and about at one 
o’clock. If they see me coming back at nine^ 
they will think that I have been out for a walk. 
As for the respectability of my business, let me 
assure you, Sarah dear, that it is one of the most 
honorable and useful callings which exist.” 

“I suppose that I must take your word for 
it,” said Mrs. Carson, doubtingly. “What is 
the reason, though, that I must be kept in the 
dark? What will the rest of the family say 
about it?” 

“All in good time, Sarah. All in good time. 
As I said before, my calling is a most decent 
and respectable one. When you know about it, 
as you will very shortly, you will acknowledge 
that fact.” 

Upon parting with Uncle William, Mrs. 
Carson did not show by the expression of her 
face that she was very well satisfied with the 
quality of this business. 

All the evening before and all that day, 
Thomas Carson had been going around with a 
very important air. He looked as if he had 
a matter of great weight upon his mind and as 
if he longed to unburden himself. Late in the 
afternoon, finding Uncle William in the front 
parlor, he proceeded to do so. 


THOMAS CARSON’S SPECULATION 93 

^‘Uncle William,” said he, “you see before 
you a man who has just made a most successful 
venture. I am about ten thousand dollars better 
off than I was a few days ago. I saw the chance 
and I took it. Some people think that I am 
slow and unenterprising. That is because I 
have never had an opportunity. The oppor- 
tunity came and I took advantage of it at once.” 

“I am delighted, Thomas, to hear of your 
good fortune. Do you care to tell me how it 
came about?” 

“I will tell you; but it must go no further 
at present. If news of it got out prematurely 
it might spoil all. As you perhaps know, I 
am a bookkeeper in the offices of the Manhattan 
Biscuit Company. This company, in times past, 
has made a great deal of money, and, up to a 
period, about seven years ago, paid regular 
dividends of eight per cent a year. This made 
the stock worth well above par; so that it was 
considered a very good investment. About 
seven years ago the Company began to have 
trouble. Several lawsuits went against it, an 
officer of the Company ran away with a hundred 
thousand dollars of its funds, and several of its 
large customers failed. For these reasons, the 
dividends were suspended, and the Company 
hasn’t paid a cent for seven years. During the 
last year or two, however, things have been look- 
ing up, the company has accumulated a large 
surplus, and dividends are about to be resumed. 
At the last meeting of the directors, a resolu- 


94 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


tion was passed, declaring a quarterly dividend 
of two per cent, which will be paid upon the 
first of the month. This puts the stock again 
upon an eight per cent basis, and makes it again 
worth par. This, however, is a secret, and no 
one, outside of the directors, knows about it, 
with the exception of myself. I happened to 
be in a telephone booth, next the board room, 
at the time of the meeting, and I heard the 
directors pass the resolution.” 

“Now there is an old fellow, named Apple- 
yard, who owns a hundred shares of the stock. 
He has had it for the last twelve or fifteen years, 
and I think, in fact, I am certain, that he has 
no property besides. At the time he bought it, 
it was thought to be a splendid investment, and 
he took the savings of a lifetime, and bought 
the hundred shares. The old man has no rela- 
tives whatever, and, having only himself to 
support, he lived in great comfort and ease, as 
long as the company paid him the eight hundred 
dollars a year. You can imagine what happened 
to the old chap when the company stopped pay- 
ment. I suppose it must have been like the end 
of the world. I don’t know how he has managed 
to exist since then. I think, though, that he 
makes furnace fires and cleans off sidewalks. 
That’s quite a come down; because, really, he 
was quite intelligent and well educated.” 

“Now the funny part of it is this. Every 
quarter day he comes around to the office, to ask 
if there isn’t any dividend. He has got to be 


THOMAS CARSON’S SPECULATION 95 

sort of childish about it. He hasn’t missed a 
quarter day since the company stopped paying 
dividends. First, he used to insist on seeing the 
president or the secretary. For the last four or 
five years, though, they have pretended they 
were out, and have shunted him off on me.” 

“He must be seventy-five years old by this 
time. He’s a comical-looking old codger, be- 
lieve me. Long and slim, with a white beard 
like a goat, funny little eyes like a fish, and a 
yellow shriveled neck, like a turkey’s. He shakes 
all over, as if he had the palsy, and his nose and 
chin work up and down, like a rabbit’s when 
he talks to you. The boys in the office play all 
sorts of jokes on him, steal his hat, or his hand- 
kerchief, and pin papers on his back. He doesn’t 
seem to mind it though. ‘Boys will be boys’ is 
all they can get out of him.” 

“Thomas,” said Uncle William, gently, 
“you tell this story as if there were something 
humorous and comical about it. You seem to 
think the whole thing vastly amusing. To my 
mind, it is all extremely pathetic. Your 
description of the old man awakens nothing but 
compassion in my heart.” 

“That may be, Uncle. I suppose that it 
would strike different people differently. Well, 
to get on with what I was going to say. When 
I overheard the directors pass that resolution, 
I immediately thought of old Appleyard and 
his hundred shares of stock. ‘Here,’ said I 
to myself, ‘is where I make a lot of money. I 


96 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


can easily buy the old man’s stock for a few 
hundred dollars. He hasn’t had a cent out of 
it for years, and will be only too glad to realize 
something upon it.’ I at once sent for him, and 
he came trotting down to the office in a great 
state of excitement. He evidently thought that 
the long deferred dividend had been declared. 
I talked with him for some time, spoke of the 
great losses which the company had sustained, 
at one time and another, showed him how un- 
likely it was that the company would ever pay 
a dividend, and offered him five hundred 
dollars for his stock. It is almost unnecessary 
to say that he accepted my offer at once. He 
is going to bring the certificate of stock to me 
to-morrow, and I am going to pay him the 
money. What do you think of that for a trans- 
action? If I keep the stock until the dividend 
is paid, I will have, including the dividend, 
ten thousand, two hundred dollars, a profit of 
ninety-seven hundred dollars. It seems almost 
too good to be true. Sometimes I think that 
I will keep the stock, instead of selling it. That 
will make me a person of importance in the 
company. It may even be that they will make 
me, in time, a director.” 

“Thomas,” said Uncle William, “I do not 
think that I have heard you correctly. I think 
that I have misunderstood what you have just 
been saying. Kindly go over it again.” 

Thomas Carson again told of the thought 
which had come to him, as he was listening to 


THOMAS CARSON’S SPECULATION 97 

the transactions of the directors’ meeting, and 
how he had bought old Appleyard’s stock for 
five hundred dollars. 

“The reason,” said Uncle William, “why I 
asked you to tell me the story over again, was 
that I scarcely could bring myself to believe 
that you proposed to do this thing. The affair 
resolves itself into this: This old man is feeble 
and sick. I think you said that he shook, as 
if he had the palsy. It is bad enough to be old 
and sick and feeble. It is a thousand times worse 
to be also poor. The old man has a property 
which, commencing with the first of the month, 
will bring him in an income of eight hundred 
dollars a year. Upon this income he can live 
with comfort and with ease. You propose to 
deprive him of this property. The result is 
easily foreseen. He is too old to work, he will 
have to beg. He will die upon the streets or in 
the hospital. This will be your work.” 

“Now there is no use. Uncle William, in 
putting the proposition in such a harsh way. 
I offered him the money, and he took it. It 
was a fair, business-like transaction. Besides, 
you must remember that I have to look out for 
my own family.” 

“Your family will never prosper by the 
use of the money which you have taken from 
this poor old man. Let us suppose that you 
should find Mr. Appleyard asleep by the side 
of the highway, upon a dark night. Let us also 
suppose that he has a pocket book, which con- 

7 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


98 

tains ten thousand dollars. Would you take it 
away from him?” 

“Certainly not. That would be highway 
robbery.” 

“When you buy his stock for five hundred 
dollars, it is also highway robbery. I have en- 
deavored to prevent you from doing this thing 
by exciting your compassion. I will now show 
you that you would be committing a crime, not 
only in the sight of God, but in the sight of man. 
You are an officer of the company. The directors 
were elected by the stockholders, and you were 
appointed by the directors. Consequently you 
were appointed by the stockholders. You were 
put into your present position, that you might 
work for the stockholders and guard their 
interests. That was the agreement which you 
tacitly made when you took the position. In- 
stead of guarding the interests of the stock- 
holder Appleyard, you are using your position 
to ruin him. You are using the knowledge 
which your position gives you to buy his property 
for a tithe of what it is worth. You are betray- 
ing your trust. Heavens, man! Do you not see 
that this project of yours is impossible?” 

“I suppose it is,” answered Thomas, with a 
long-drawn-out sigh. “It is a mighty hard 
thing to give it up though. To tell the truth, 
I have had some qualms of conscience about it, 
now and then. You have put the affair before 
me in a new way, and I see now, that, being an 
officer of the company, I couldn’t very well buy 


THOMAS CARSON’S SPECULATION 99 

his stock. I will tell him, however, that I have 
found out, since talking with him, that the 
directors have declared a dividend, and that the 
trade is off.” 

‘‘That will not do either, Thomas. Tell him 
the truth. Tell him that you knew about the 
dividend all the time; but that you have since 
been talking with a friend and thinking the 
matter over, and that you do not wish to rob 
him.” 

“I will tell him that. Uncle William. The 
next time that I am in doubt, I am coming to 
you. There is something about you which in- 
spires one to better thoughts. Uncle William, 
I want to shake hands with you.” 


CHAPTER X 
Saints’ Rest 

Uncle William left the house at one o’clock 
Monday morning and returned at nine. After 
changing his clothing, he came down to the 
dining-room. The meal was long since over; 
but Amy had kept his breakfast warm and now 
gave him her company while he ate. 

“Amy,” said he, “you are the only one who 
has not asked me what my business was.” 

“I have not asked you. Uncle William, be- 
cause I thought you would tell me if you wished 
me to know.” 

“Amy, you are a pearl among women. The 
rest of them are dying to know. A certain young 
man will get a prize when he marries you. Have 
you not thought it strange, though, that I should 
take the hours from one until nine in the 
morning?” 

“The hours may seem unusual. Uncle. 
Whatever your business may be, however, I 
know that it must be something fine and honest 
and worthy.” 

“And so it is, Amy. There is nothing more 
useful and honorable.” 

On Tuesday morning. Uncle William and 
Amy sat again in the dining-room. Presently, 
Thomas Carson, who had made himself ready 

100 


SAINTS’ REST loi 

for the street, came to the doorway and looked 
in upon them. 

“Good morning, Uncle William,” said he, 
“I see that you are back from your business. 
I wish you success with it, whatever it is. I 
wanted to tell you about old Appleyard. I sent 
for him yesterday and told him exactly what we 
had agreed upon. I was never so glad of any- 
thing in my life. I see now that I would have 
made a great mistake. You should have seen 
the old man when I told him. It was pitiful. 
It upset me. I haven’t got over it yet.” 

Thomas Carson turned away and seemed to 
have much difficulty in repressing his feelings. 

“Thomas,” said Uncle William, impres- 
sively. “I congratulate you. This is something 
which you will always remember with pleasure. 
I have a curious feeling about this matter. I 
think that this is not the end of it. You have 
set in motion a train of circumstances which will 
bring you contentment and happiness.” 

As Thomas Carson left the room, Morris 
Rosenfeld came in. 

“Hullo, Uncle William!” cried he. “I see 
that you are back again. Hope that you are 
making a go of it. I don’t know what you are 
doing; but I’ll bet it’s all right, all right. I 
wanted to tell you about Guilfoyle. I did just 
as you said. Say, did I make a mistake? Well, 
I guess not. If I had done as I wanted to at 
first, I’d have been all kinds of a blamed fool. 
Say, Uncle William, you ought to have seen 


.102 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


Martin Guilfoyle when I told him Ed let up 
on him. He went all to pieces, got hold of my 
hand and wouldn’t let go. It upset me, kind of 
turned me upside down. What do you think 
he said?” Says he: “The best man I ever met 
in my life is a Jew, and you’re it.” And says 
he: “I’m your friend for life, and whatever you 
want in the sixth district. I’ll see you get it.” 

“Morris,” said Uncle William, heartily, “I 
congratulate you. I am glad to join with you 
in your satisfaction. I see that you are very 
happy over the matter. Well, you should be. 
You have done a good action, you have caused 
your religion to be respected, by showing that 
a Jew may be a just and merciful man, and you 
have gained a good friend.” 

When Uncle William went up stairs, at 
about ten o’clock, he heard a sound of voices 
coming from George’s room, which was the large 
front room upon the fourth floor. It was un- 
usual for George to be in his chamber at that 
hour. He should have been at the bank. George 
was talking loudly and desperately. Then there 
was a woman’s voice too. She was uttering sor- 
rowful exclamations, complaining and sobbing. 
Presently the door opened and Mrs. Sarah 
Carson came from the room. She had her 
handkerchief to her eyes, and was convulsed 
with grief. Uncle William met her upon the 
landing and took her hand. 

“What is the matter, Sarah?” asked he. 

“I can’t tell you. It is too terrible.” 


SAINTS’ REST 


103 


^^But I can help you. You must tell me.” 

“You can’t help me. It is a matter of money.” 

“Even so, I can help you.” 

A momentary look of hope came into Mrs. 
Carson’s face. Perhaps this old man had re- 
sources that she knew not of. 

“It is too frightful,” said she, chokingly. 
“I don’t see how I can tell you. It is very hard 
for me to do so. It is the bank. There is some- 
thing the matter with George’s accounts at the 
bank.” 

“George has been taking money from the 
bank?” 

“Yes, I suppose he really has. I did not like 
to put it in that way. It seems so harsh and 
vulgar to say it in such a plain blunt manner. 
Oh, whatever shall I do?” 

“How much money has he taken?” 

“A very small amount, only about seven 
hundred dollars. I suppose the poor boy really 
meant no harm. You see, he intended to replace 
it. Then, too, young men have so many temp- 
tations. There are so many ways for them to 
spend money. Oh, William, that isn’t the worst 
of it. If you knew how it makes my heart ache 
to tell you ; but I must. This isn’t the first time. 
It has happened twice before. Morris and 
Thomas helped him out before. I owe them 
both. They have my notes, Morris twelve hun- 
dred and Thomas six. There is no use in apply- 
ing to them again. Thomas has absolutely noth- 
ing, and Morris declared, the last time, that he 


104 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


would never pay another cent. He said that, 
if it happened again, he would leave the house.” 

“Sarah,” said Uncle William, gently, but 
firmly, “I can help you out of this trouble, and 
I will help you. But it must be in my own way.” 

“Oh, William, if you really would. I don’t 
care how you do it, if you only do it.” 

“Let us go in and see the young man.” 

When they entered the room, they found 
George sitting in a large easy chair with his 
head in his hands. He looked up and scowled. 
He saw that his mother had acquainted Uncle 
William with the business, and he resented it. 

“What is he doing here?” he demanded, 
roughly. “What did you tell him for?” 

“Your Uncle William says that he can help 
us, George. That is why he is here.” 

“How can he do anything? He hasn’t a 
copper himself. What was the sense of bring- 
ing him into this?” 

“I told your mother,” said Uncle William, 
patiently, “that I could help you out of this 
trouble, and that I would do so if I could do it 
in my own way. In the first place, how much 
money have you stolen from the bank?” 

“What do you mean by talking to me in 
that way?” demanded George, “I don’t want 
you or anyone else to use such words to me.” 

“Oh, William,” pleaded Mrs. Carson, “do 
not use such harsh language to the boy. He 
doesn’t deserve it. You must make some al- 
lowance for him,” 


SAINTS’ REST 


105 


‘T said ^stolen,’ said Uncle William, firmly, 
“and I repeat it. When I help him out of this 
affair, I make certain conditions. One of them 
is that he shall repent of his crime and take 
a solemn oath never to repeat it. His sensitive- 
ness at having his misdeeds called by their right 
names does not look well. It does not look as 
if he realized the enormity of his transgression. 
How can he repent, unless he fully realizes what 
he has done? I repeat my question. How much 
money have you stolen from the bank?” 

“Seven hundred dollars,” answered George 
sullenly. 

“When will your defalcation be discovered? 
How long time have you in which to make 
it up?” 

“It would be all right if I could replace it 
by to-morrow afternoon.” 

“What did you do with the money?” 

“What has that to do with it? What differ- 
ence does it make?” 

“It makes this difference. If I am to pay 
for you, you must tell me the truth, and answer 
without quibbling. What did you do with the 
money?” 

“if you must know, I bet it on the wrong 
horses.” 

Fire blazed from Uncle William’s eyes. 

“In other words,” said he, sententiously and 
severely, “you stole in order to gamble. You 
did not need the money for any legitimate pur- 
pose. You took it to satisfy your evil desires. 


io6 OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 

This is the third or fourth time you have done 
this, and it should show me that you are in- 
corrigible. Twice or thrice your brother and 
your uncle, both of whom you look down upon 
and ridicule, have saved you from arrest. You 
are a wicked and miserable wretch. You have 
done your best to bring shame and disgrace upon 
your mother and sister. You deserve no mercy. 
Your proper place is in State’s prison. I have 
promised your mother, though, to help you out 
of this trouble, and I will do so. First, how- 
ever, you will swear upon the Bible, never again 
to steal, gamble or drink. Sarah, will you fetch 
me a Bible?” 

Mrs. Carson went out of the room and re- 
turned, after a moment or two, with a Bible. 
Uncle William took it and handed it to George. 

“Put your hand upon it,” commanded Uncle 
William, and repeat my words. “I swear, never 
again, so long as I live, to steal, gamble or 
drink.” 

George repeated his words in a dogged and 
sullen manner. 

“Now,” said Uncle William, “kiss the book.” 
George made a pretence of doing so. Uncle 
William arose and went to leave the room. 

“I am going to get the money,” said he, “I 
will be gone an hour. Wait for me here.” 

Uncle William went into his own room and 
picked up his two well beloved books. He 
looked at them fondly and lingeringly. After 
a while he put the Pilgrim’s Progress in his 


SAINTS’ REST 


107 


pocket and laid the Saints’ Rest upon the wash 
stand. He stood a moment, undecided, then 
he drew the one book from his pocket, and re- 
placed it with the other. He now went down 
stairs and left the house. He went over to 
Fifth Avenue and walked down Fifth Avenue, 
until near Twenty-third Street. Here he found 
and entered a second-hand book store, one of 
those stores where they buy and sell rare and 
valuable books. When he came out, a half 
hour later, he had left his small volume with 
the proprietor of the store, and he had in his 
pocket book seven hundred dollars in crisp new 
bank bills of large denominations. 

“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Carson to 
Uncle William, after he had given George the 
money, and after George had gone down town, 
“that you were altogether too hard and severe 
upon George. You must recollect that he is 
really nothing but a boy. My heart bled for 
him while you were talking to him. And 
William, there is something I wish to speak to 
you about. I can’t bear to have you sitting at 
the small table by the wall. I am going to make 
arrangements at dinner, so that you can have 
your former place by Amy.” 


CHAPTER XI 
Pilgrim’s Progress 

George Percival did not return to the house 
that noon, and Uncle William sat in George’s 
seat at the table, and was next to Amy. Thomas 
Carson also remained down town, and Victor 
Thorne, becoming aware of the fact, perhaps 
through telepathy, came to take luncheon with 
his mother. As before. Dot took her father’s 
place, and Victor sat between his mother and 
Lily Smith Carson. 

“When Papa’s away,” remarked Dot, “I 
alius sit in Papa’s place and Victor sits in my 
place. Wy don’t Mama sit in papa’s place? 
Then I c’ud sit in Mama’s place?” 

Lily Smith Carson colored and repressed 
her offspring with a threatening frown and a 
whispered word of command. 

“Victor is not used to little girls,” said Dot’s 
grandmother. “We have you sit here so that 
you will not annoy him.” 

“Is Victor used to big girls?” asked Dot. 

When the meal was over, Victor went down 
town. A half an hour afterward, Lily Smith 
Carson also left the house. She walked over to 
Sixth Avenue, took the elevated train and got 
off at the Thirty-fourth Street station. At the 
foot of the stairway, she was met by Victor, and 

108 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 109 

the two crossed over to the Herald Square 
Theatre which, at the time, was showing moving 
pictures. The semi-obscurity of a moving 
picture theatre covers a multitude of sins. As 
Victor was buying the tickets. Uncle William, 
appearing suddenly from nowhere in particular, 
came up to them. 

“This is a happy chance,” said he, “I am 
certainly very fortunate in coming across you. 
I have long been devoted to these entertainments. 
In the rough places of the west, you know, it is 
all the theatre we have. I am glad to see that 
you also are patrons of the moving pictures. I 
shall enjoy them much more by reason of your 
company.” 

Victor and Lily did not seem to be 
enthusiastic in their welcome of Uncle William. 
When they were seated in the theatre, Lily 
Smith Carson was in the middle, with Victor 
and Uncle William upon either side. 

“It seems to me,” remarked Uncle William, 
during an interval between the scenes, “that 
these moving picture dramas are doing an im- 
mense amount of good. They are educating 
the people, and particularly that class of the 
people which most needs it. The invention is 
still in its infancy and there is no telling to what 
great heights of perfection it may grow. The 
question is: Shall it be used for good or evil? 
Shall these pictures be educational and elevating, 
or shall they be unprofitable and debasing? I 
would be in favor of using them in the churches 


1 10 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


and in the schools. Music has for ages been 
part of the church service. Why not pictures? 
What could be more interesting than to see de- 
picted the acts of the apostles, or the parables 
of our Lord? Make moving pictures of the 
incidents of the Bible a part of the service, and 
women would no longer go to church solely 
for the purpose of showing their clothing, or 
looking at the clothing of other women. Men 
would no longer go to church solely because 
their wives made them, or because it helped 
them in business. I would also give half or 
three quarters of an hour of every school day 
to moving pictures. In this way, history, 
geography and morals might be taught to the 
best advantage. Education, to the child, would 
be a delight, instead of a vexation, and the boy 
would no longer be ‘creeping like snail unwill- 
ingly to school’.’’ 

Victor Thorne took out his watch and looked 
at the time. 

“I have just thought of an important en- 
gagement,” said he. “I had forgotten it entirely. 
I must leave at once. Lily, you will pardon me, 
will you not? I really must go.” 

He shook hands with Lily, and left the 
theatre, without looking at Uncle William. 

“I think,” said Lily, after a few moments, 
“that I will go too. I have some shopping to 
do. It is really important, and I can’t neglect it.” 

Saying this, she arose and left the theatre. 
Uncle William sat on alone. 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


III 


George Percival did not come home to 
dinner. Neither did he appear during the eve- 
ning. It was eight o’clock, and Uncle William 
was going to bed. He went to bed now at eight 
instead of nine. As he was passing along the 
hallway of the second floor, he was met by Mrs. 
Carson, the elder. 

“William,” said she, “George has not been 
home since morning. What do you think is the 
reason? I am afraid that something has hap- 
pened to him. Usually I do not worry when he 
stays away; but now 'I am anxious. He had all 
that money with him, you know.” 

“I must say, Sarah, that I am anxious, too.” 

“Then you also think that something may 
have happened to him.” 

“No, Sarah. I am anxious about the money.” 

“You think that he may have lost it?” 

“It depends upon what you mean by the 
word lost.” 

George did not come home that night. At 
nine o’clock, the next morning, just after Uncle 
William had returned from his business, a taxi- 
cab was driven to the door. The driver and 
another man who sat with him opened the cab 
door and pulled from the cab something which 
resembled a dilapidated George Percival Carson. 
At Uncle William’s direction, the young man 
was taken to his room upon the fourth floor and 
put to bed. After Uncle William had settled 
with the driver and the men had left, he went 


1 12 OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 

into the boy’s room, where he found Mrs. 
Carson. 

“The poor boy!” sighed his mother. “It 
must have been such a great relief to him when 
he settled with the bank that he went and made 
a night of it.” 

“Are you sure,” asked Uncle William, “that 
he settled with the bank?” 

“Why, of course. That would be his first 
move. What else would he do with the money?” 

“There are several other things which he 
might do with it. If you look in the pockets of 
his coat and vest, you may find out what he has 
done with it.” 

George’s clothing hung upon the back of a 
chair. 

Mrs. Carson felt in the pockets, and drew 
forth a number of three inch squares of paper. 
Upon each of these squares was written a word. 
Under the words were figures. Uncle William 
picked up one of the tickets and read aloud. 

“Firefly, to win,” read he, “twenty-five 
dollars.” 

He then took up and read another. 

“Angelina, for place, twenty dollars.” 

Uncle William now assembled all the tickets, 
shuffled them from one hand to another, and 
made a computation. 

“The amounts of money on these tickets,” 
said he, “total something over six hundred dol- 
lars. It is plain that George has again been 
betting upon the wrong horses. In an hour or 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


113 

so, he will have recovered sufficiently so that 
you can find out the truth from him. When 
you have discovered it, let me know.” 

“William!” cried Mrs. Carson, with a hor- 
ror-stricken face. “You don’t think that he has 
lost the money?” 

“I am afraid so, Sarah.” 

An hour afterward, Mrs. Carson found 
Uncle William in the library. 

“Oh, William!” she exclaimed. “It is true. 
He has lost everything. He hasn’t one single 
penny. He has owned up. The poor boy 
thought that he might win back what he had 
lost before. What shall we do? What shall 
we do? The money must be in the bank this 
afternoon. We will all be disgraced.” 

“There, there, Sarah,” said Uncle William, 
gently, patting her arm. “Do not worry. I 
said that I would help you out of your trouble 
and I will keep my word.” 

“But how can you do so? It will take seven 
hundred dollars more, and I thought that you 
were absolutely without funds. William, you 
must be a rich man, after all.” 

“I am not rich ; but you may trust me, never- 
theless.” 

Uncle William went to his room and took 
up his small, remaining volume. He looked at 
it long and lovingly; then he put it in his pocket, 
went down the stairs and out of the house. He 
visited the book store upon Fifth Avenue, where 
he had been the day before. When he came out, 

8 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


114 

his Pilgrim’s Progress reposed upon the shelf, 
beside the Saints’ Rest. When he returned to 
the house, he sought out Mrs. Carson. 

^‘Here is the money again,” said he, as he 
handed her the roll of bills. “I wish that you 
would go down to the bank with George this 
afternoon. When you have gone into the bank 
with him, give him the money, and see that he 
puts it where it belongs.” 

“But that will look as if I could not trust 
him.” 

“But can you, Sarah?” 

Mrs. Carson’s estimate of Uncle William’s 
financial standing had gone up by leaps and 
bounds. Max had again been relegated to the 
small table beside the wall, and Uncle William 
had his old place at her right hand. She was 
even thinking of fixing up a room for him on the 
second story. Sometimes, she dreamed again of 
new rugs and curtains, and of a new wardrobe 
for herself and Amy. 

Several weeks passed by. George seemed to 
have changed very much for the better. He no 
longer drank. His appearance had improved, 
and he kept good hours, both at the bank and 
at home. 

One night, Thomas Carson telephoned that 
he v/as not coming home for dinner, and that 
he would be kept at the office until eleven 
o’clock. At half past eight, while the other 
members of the family were playing bridge, or 
were otherwise engaged in the parlors, Lily 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 115 

Smith Carson, carrying a black traveling bag, 
stole softly down the stairs, and let herself out 
of the front door. Again she took the Sixth 
Avenue elevated train to Thirty-fourth Street, 
and again, she was met, at the foot of the stair- 
way, by Victor Thorne. 

They went into a nearby restaurant, and re- 
mained there for an hour. When they came out, 
Victor helped his companion into a taxicab, and 
placed the traveling bag beside her. Then he 
went back into the restaurant, as if he had for- 
gotten something. At this moment, someone 
opened the door of the taxicab. Lily looked 
up and saw Uncle William. He extended his 
hand to her. 

“Come!” said he. 

He spoke in a low and gentle tone of voice; 
but there was a quality in his accents and a 
compelling force in his glance which seemed 
to hypnotize her. She arose, took his hand and 
stepped down to the walk. Uncle William 
picked up her traveling bag, closed the door of 
the cab, gave her his arm, and the two passed 
up the street. The driver of the cab interposed 
no objection. He had probably had the same 
kind of experience before. Coming to a hotel. 
Uncle William stopped. 

“I will check your traveling bag here,” said 
he. “When I come home to-morrow morning, 
I will bring it with me.” 

When he had checked the bag, he hailed a 
taxicab, and they were driven homeward. 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


1 16 

“Lily,” said he, presently, “I was speaking 
to you, that day when we went to the moving 
pictures, about the moral influence which those 
pictures exert. I recollect that I was telling 
about the man who steals his neighbor’s wife. 
How the pictures always show that it brings 
unhappiness to both him and her. How true 
this is! In the first place, he can have no respect 
for her, and without respect there can be no 
love. On both sides there can be really but a 
temporary infatuation, which soon turns to 
hatred and contempt. The woman, by her act, 
at once puts herself beyond the pale of society. 
She is separated forever from the companionship 
of good women. If she has left a child, she 
disgraces it. If the child should die, her remorse 
would be eternal.” 

When they had arrived home, and were going 
up the steps, she squeezed his arm. 

“I am so glad, so glad,” she said chokingly. 

In the hallway, they were met by Mrs. Car- 
son, the elder. 

“Why, Lily,” she exclaimed, “wherever have 
you been?” 

“We have been taking in the moving 
pictures,” answered Uncle William. 


CHAPTER XII 
Uncle William’s Departure 

The next morning there was joy in the Carson 
household. The postman, on his morning 
round, had brought a letter to Thomas Carson. 
It was typewritten upon the letterhead of 
Dawson & Dawson, Attorneys at Law, and read 
as follows: 


“Thomas Grosvenor Carson, Esquire.” 

“Dear Sir: We regret to have to inform you of the death, 
upon the third of the present month, of our client, Mr. 
Benjamin Appleyard. We drew up Mr. Appleyard’s will, 
and it was executed upon the 29th of last month. We are 
pleased to inform you that, by this will, he has made you his 
sole heir. Please call upon us in our office at an early date, 
and we will arrange for the settling of the estate and the 
transfer of the property. 

“Very truly yours, 

Dawson & Dawson.” 

“Lily,” said Thomas Carson, at the break- 
fast table, after the matter of the legacy had 
been talked over at great length, “as soon as 
the estate is settled, I will get a dividend of two 
hundred dollars from the stock which old 
Appleyard has left me. I am going to give this 
dividend cheque to you. I have never been able 
to dress you as I should. You must buy a new 


ii8 OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 

outfit, throughout. No one deserves it better 
than you.” 

At half past eight, on the night of the same 
day. Uncle William, on the v^ay to his room, 
met George Percival on the landing of the third 
floor. 

“I want to talk with you for a few moments,” 
said George. 

Uncle William with his hand upon the rail 
of the stairway which led to the fourth floor, 
gazed at George, with an enigmatic smile. 

“This is a disagreeable thing,” continued the 
young man, “but IVe got to get it over with. 
Mother and I have talked about it, and we have 
both come to the same conclusion. She ‘would 
tell you herself; but she naturally dislikes to 
do it.” 

“I am listening,” said Uncle William. 

“Of course, you know of the very hand- 
some fortune which has been left to Thomas by 
old Appleyard. What induced him to make 
Thomas his heir I don’t know ; but that is neither 
here nor there.” 

“After all it makes no difference.” 

“I have also been fortunate. I have received 
an increase in salary from the bank of three 
hundred dollars a year.” 

“I congratulate you with all my heart.” 

“I mention these things to show you that the 
Carson family is looking up. We are no longer 
nobodies, we are going to take a position in the 
world. Thomas hopes, by next year, to become 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S DEPARTURE 119 

a director in his company. I also have my am- 
bitions in regard to the bank. Ten days ago, I 
made the acquaintance of Lucy Adams, the. 
cashier’s daughter. I have already taken her 
twice to the theatre, she is a fine girl, and I can 
see that she is not indifferent to me. We may 
make a match of it. Stranger things than that 
have happened. Also you know that Amy is 
to marry Edward Snow. The date of the 
wedding has been fixed for October first.” 

“Yes, I know that.” 

“I have mentioned these facts simply as pre- 
liminaries. It is really on account of these 
things that Mother and I have come to the 
agreement which I spoke of. Now I come to 
the really important part of what I have to say. 
I have always thought it very strange that you 
should leave the house at one in the morning, 
and come back at nine. It has been a very extra- 
ordinary proceeding, and our suspicions have 
been aroused. Last night, I waited up until you 
left the house. Then I followed you.” 

“I knew that you did.” 

“I found out that you are a waiter in Gray’s 
all night restaurant. Your hours are from two 
in the morning until eight. They have four 
shifts of waiters. The ones who serve from two 
to eight in the morning are paid the most.” 

“That is why I chose those hours.” 

“Well, do you think for a moment that the 
Carsons will permit a member of the family 


120 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


to disgrace them by waiting in a public 
restaurant?” 

“It is an honest and useful occupation.” 

“Hang it all! I suppose it is honest. But 
it isn’t honorable or respectable. I have shown 
you that the family is getting up in the world, 
that there is going to be a vast improvement in 
its social and financial standing. Under the cir- 
cumstances, we can’t afiford to have a common 
waiter in the house. Think of the disgrace, the 
ignominy of it. Such connections are impossible 
in a family with such prestige and such ante- 
cedents.” 

“I had no idea,” said Uncle William, softly, 
“that it was such a terrible thing. I see now my 
mistake.” 

“I am not through. The worst is yet to come. 
You have been imposing upon us. You are not 
our Uncle William. You are no relation what- 
ever. Mother found it out to-day. She 
happened to meet a man on the street, an old 
gentleman, named Burchell, whom she knew 
long ago. He was my father’s schoolmate. 
They were children together. He told mother 
that Father had neither brothers nor sisters.” 

“Nevertheless,” said Uncle William, sadly, 
“I am your father’s brother. You have not told 
me, though, what you and your mother wish.” 

“I should think that you would see, without 
my telling you. The only way out of it is for 
you to take your departure. Mother and I have 
agreed upon that. Of course we feel that we are 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S DEPARTURE 12 1 


under great obligations to you for the money 
which you advanced when I was in that con- 
founded pickle, and it goes without saying that 
I intend to pay you back, sometime. When you 
get settled in your new home, be sure and send 
me your address.” 

“And you really wish me to go?” 

“Confound it! yes. Why do you make me 
say it so many times?” 

“I shall go; but, if I go, I shall never come 
back.” 

“Come back! why should you come back? 
We could not expect you to return. There would 
be no reason for it. I am glad to see that you 
are so ready to meet our wishes. When will you 
go? I don’t wish to hurry you ; but Mother will 
want to know.” 

“I shall go to-night. I shall go at once.” 

“Oh, pshaw! There’s no need of any such 
haste. We don’t mean to drive you out like that. 
To-morrow or even the next day will be early 
enough.” 

“I shall go now,” said Uncle William, 
gently. “It will take me but a moment to pack 
my things.” 

Saying this, he turned, and went slowly up 
the stairway to his room. George, standing at 
the foot of the stair saw him go into his room 
and shut the door. 

After five minutes of waiting, the young man 
became somewhat impatient. It shouldn’t take 
the old man all that time to throw what few 


122 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


things he had into his suit case. When ten 
minutes had passed, George bounded up the 
stairway, to see what might cause such a delay. 
When he opened the door and came into the 
room, he found no one there. Neither was there 
a sign remaining of the suit case, or of any of 
Uncle William’s things. He went to the win- 
dow, thinking that his quondam relative had 
got out upon the eaves, and so to the roof. The 
window was closed and locked. Passing out of 
the chamber, he perceived his mother walking 
along the hallway just below. 

“Mother,” he called out, “something strange 
has happened. Quick, come up here.” 

Mrs. Carson hurried up the stairs, as quickly 
as her age and stoutness would permit. George 
took her into Uncle William’s room, and told 
her what had happened. 

“What a curious thing!” she exclaimed. 
“The room has a close, musty air, as if no one 
had used it for weeks. There is dust, too, upon 
the wash stand and upon the window sill. There 
are no marks in the dust. The bed looks as if 
it had not been slept in for a long while. Are 
you sure he did not come out of the room while 
your head was turned the other way?” 

“I am certain that he did not. I was looking 
at his door all the while. Besides, where could 
he have gone to? To set your mind at rest, 
though, we will look in all the other rooms on 
this floor.” 

They searched every room upon the floor; 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S DEPARTURE 123 

but did not find him. Then they descended to 
the third floor. Amy occupied the front hall 
chamber, and they found her there. 

“Amy,” asked her mother, “have you seen 
Uncle William during the last ten minutes?” 

“Yes, mother. He was in my room five 
minutes ago. I was bending over a tabouret, 
with my face toward the window, matching some 
worsteds. He came behind me, put his hand 
for a moment on my head, and said: ‘God be 
with you, Amy.’ I knew just how he looked, 
that pleasant face of his, with the kindly smile. 
I paused a moment, pleased with the anticipation 
of looking at him. When I turned about, he 
was gone.” 

Mrs. Carson now told Amy of Uncle 
William’s mysterious disappearance. 

“But do you mean to say,” asked Amy, dis- 
consolately, “that you have sent Uncle William 
away? Why did you do it? How could you 
do it?” 

The mother, daughter and son now went 
down to the first floor and into the parlor, where 
they found the other members of the family, 
with the exception of Dot and Max, who had 
gone to a candy store upon the next corner. 

“Have you seen Uncle William during the 
last ten minutes?” asked George of Thomas. 

“Yes, four or five minutes ago, he opened the 
library door, looked in, waved his hand, smiled 
and said: ‘Good night, all.’ Then he went 
toward the hallway. I wanted to speak to him, 


124 


OUR UNCLE WILLIAM 


and passed, myself, into the library, and through 
the library to the hall. He wasn’t there. 
Neither was he upon the stair. I thought that 
he might have gone out upon the porch, and 
I opened the door and looked out. Morris was 
sitting upon the coping; but had not seen him.” 

Just then the front door bell rang, and Amy 
went to the door and let in the two children. 

“See what Uncle William has given us!” 
cried they both in unison, each of them holding 
up a silver dollar. 

“Where and when did you see Uncle 
Wiliam?” asked their grandmother. 

“Just now, by the candy store,” answered 
Max. “He put his hand on my shoulder, lifted 
Dot up and kissed her, told us to be good 
children and gave us silver dollars.” 

Mrs. Carson now told of the manner in 
which Uncle William had vanished from his 
room, and how he had appeared to Amy. 

“It is very strange, very strange,” said she. 
“He seems to have been in several places at the 
same time. I can’t account for it.” 

“No matter about all that,” said Amy, “it 
makes no difference. The main fact is that 
Uncle William has gone. I know, too, that he 
has gone for good. We shall never see him 
again. Oh, dear, oh, dear. To think that I shall 
never see him again.” 

She buried her face in her hands, and wept 
silently. Max hung his head and dug his 
knuckles into his eyes. Dot roared lustily. 


UNCLE WILLIAM’S DEPARTURE 125 

‘‘Come on! Come on,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Thorne, “we shall never finish that game of 
bridge. I have forgotten the trump. Come on, 
Thomas and Morris. It is getting on to nine 
o’clock. We are accomplishing absolutely 
nothing.” 

“I don’t think that I care to play any more,” 
said Thomas. 

“I’m through, for to-night,” said Morris. 

Thomas sat down and lighted his pipe. 
Morris went into the library. Amy took the 
two children into the darkness of the front 
parlor, by the window, and the other four 
women sat down at the bridge table and took 
up their cards. 


Nate Sawyer 


CHAPTER I 

A Munchausen Of The Forest 

“Ef ye want to go to Marwood’s mills,” said 
Nate Sawyer, the guide, “and I think ye said ye 
wanted to see old man Marwood, the quickest 
way and the shortest way is to foller Otter Creek 
down through the gorge. Howsoever, I’d advise 
ye to go some other way. This is a case where 
the longest way round is the shortest way acrost. 
They call that gorge the ‘Devil’s Gorge,’ and 
that’s what it sure is. There’s only one way to 
go through that gorge, and that’s by takin’ the 
left-hand side of it, and then you’re liable to 
drown yerself or get yer neck broke. Don’t take 
the right-hand side of it. Ef ye do, ye might 
as well make yer will before ye start. How- 
soever, yew’d better go another way altogether, 
say around by Henderson’s camp and down 
along Salmon Creek till ye strike Becraft’s.” 

“I’m going to risk the Devil’s Gorge,” said 
Arthur Keene. “I like the name and I think 
I’ll enjoy the trip. If I meet the owner of the 
Gorge, so much the better. I’ve always heard 
that he was a gentlemanly sort of a person.” 

“Yew may meet up with somethin’ worse nor 
him, or as bad enyhow. There’s mighty queer 
goin’s on in that place. I’ve heard tell by a 
dozen people who’ve seen em, and I’ve seen some 

126 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 127 

extry ordinary strange things there myself. Three 
or four fellers tells about seein’ somethin’ gray 
standin’ a hundred feet above em on the rocks, 
as ef it wuz a woman, and wavin’ at em, when 
no human bein’ could hev got where she wuz 
without flyin’. Then when they looked again, 
she wa’nt there. And them that chance to be 
in the woods, on the edge of the left-hand side 
of the ravine at night, hev seen lights movin’ 
along the face of the cliff on the other side, about 
half way up and half way down, which I leave 
to yew, would be unpossible. I seen em myself 
onct when I wuz a campin’ thereabouts. It 
wuz like a lantern zigzaggin’ along about a 
hundred feet down on ’tother side of the gulch. 
The walls there are about two hundred feet 
high and whosoever wuz carryin’ that light 
must hev walked on the wall like a fly.” 

“Now Nate,” said Arthur Keene, “I don’t 
take much stock in those tales. The fellows who 
saw the spirit on the cliffs did so because they 
had communed too copiously and frequently 
with the spirits which reside in certain glass 
receptacles which they carried in their pockets. 
Of course, if you say that you saw a light moving 
along the face of the cliff, I must believe you, 
at least I must believe that you thought you saw 
it. Probably, however, some one was carrying 
a lantern along the bottom of the ravine. You 
see, it was dark, and you had no way of telling 
how far down the cliff it really was.” 

“No sirree, it wa’nt so dark as all that. It 


128 


NATE SAWYER 


wa’nt so dark but what I could see the white 
foam of the creek all of a hundred feet below it. 
Waal, it’s a funny thing, but all of them fellers 
what seen the woman and the light hed some 
misfortin’ happen to em very shortly arterwards. 
Arter I seen that light I went straight back to 
the camp where I wuz stayin.’ It was a shack 
or leanto built up agin the side of the hill. 
Waal, I missed the path and fell plum through 
the roof of the shack onto Shorty McCabe, who 
wuz sleepin’ there quite peaceful. He thought 
I wuz a bear, or catamount, or some such creetur, 
and kem fer me like blazes, and before we hed 
done poundin’ and clawin’ at each other, every- 
thin’ vallyble in the camp wuz knocked into 
smithereens, our close wuz half torn offen us 
and our looks wuz far from bein’ respectable. 
That’s what happened to me after ketchin’ sight 
of that ghost liffht. Then there wuz an old 
guide named Bill Covey, who wuz fishin’ the 
stream at the bottom of the gorge. He chanct 
to look up and saw this female woman, all 
dressed in gray, and wavin’ somethin’ white at 
him. He wuz steppin’ along from stone to stone, 
and hed to mind his footin’ fer a moment. And 
when he looked up agin, she wuz gone. Jest 
then, what with twistin’ his neck backwards and 
not bein’ keerful where he wuz steppin’, he 
slipped offen a slippery rock and broke his 
laig. He wuz an awful while draggin’ himself 
onto a dry place, and he laid there two days, 
and wuz half dead, before his friends kem along 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 129 

and found him. He pinted out to me onct a 
ledge about a hundred feet up the cliff, where 
he said he saw the woman, but I pinted out to 
him the fact that no human bein’, let alone a 
woman, could ever hev got there. Howsoever, 
he swore that he seen her there and he sticks to 
it to this day. Then there wuz Si Flenderson, 
He claimed that he seen her onct when he wuz 
tryin’ to drive some logs down the creek, and it 
wa’nt an hour arter that before he wuz caught 
between two logs and hed an arm and three ribs 
broke. It’s fair got so now that no one cares 
to go up the gorge, pertikler along at dusk, or 
arterwards.” 

“Say, Nate,” asked Keene, “how much do 
you really believe yourself of all that rig- 
marole?” 

“Waal, I dunno. I’ve never seen the ghost 
myself, but I sure seen the light. Yew’ll allow 
that there’s somethin’ almighty queer about it 
all ennyway. There’s one thing sartin! It’s 
bad luck to meet up with this female spook, or 
whatever she is.” 

“Well, Nate, I’m going to disprove that be- 
lief. When I go down the gorge to-morrow, 
I’m going to keep a sharp lookout for this lady 
in gray. Perhaps I can get a chance to talk with 
her. Anyway, this settles it. If there’s a female 
spook in the gorge, you couldn’t keep me out 
of it with a log chain. What’s the reason you 
can’t go all the way with me to Glendale any- 
how? I’ve never been this way before and I 

9 


130 NATE SAWYER 

have my doubts about being able to find the 
right trail.” 

“I can’t do it. That’s all there is to it. I’ve 
jest got to get back to tother side. I told yew 
so when we started out. Besides the which, 
yew’ll hev no trouble at all. I’ll take yew with- 
in sight of the gorge, and all yew’ll hev to do is 
to go down the left-hand side of it until yew 
strike Marwood’s mills, a matter of three or 
four miles. Glendale, where old man Marwood 
lives, is a mile or so farther on. Yew can’t 
miss it.” 

The two men were seated in a small skiff 
which floated upon the blue surface of Little 
Horn Lake. Old Nate Sawyer, the guide, had 
the paddle, and Arthur Keene was trolling, or 
casting a fly for trout. 

Little Horn Lake was a small transparent 
lake hemmed about with great hemlock and 
pine-covered hills — one of the thousand lakes 
which dot the extent of the great Adirondack 
wilderness in the State of New York. It be- 
longed to a chain of four or five similar bodies 
of water, which chain of lakes was the distant 
source of the large, deep stream called “Otter 
Creek,” upon which were situated the saw mills 
of the Marwood brothers. The name of this par- 
ticular pond was Little Horn Lake, it having 
derived its name probably from its peculiarly 
winding shape, and its resemblance, as it twisted 
back and forth among the wooded mountains, 
to the horn of a half-grown elk. Its immediate 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 13 1 

and larger neighbor was called the “Big Horn 
Lake,’.’ by the same system of nomenclature. To 
the vision of any one who floated upon its bosom 
not more than a third of the lake was apparent 
at any time, for the reason that the rest of it 
was hidden around on the other side of the hills. 
It was a favorite place for fishermen and deer- 
hunters, but, at the same time, was not often 
visited, for the reason that it was very far from 
any point accessible by wagon, and only to be 
approached through dense and pathless forest. 

It was an afternoon of a day in the first part 
of June. The day was a pleasant one. A few 
hazy clouds floated slowly across the blue sky, 
and, just as lazily, their images floated across 
the mirror-like surface of the lake. The great 
hills, with their crags and lofty pines, were 
pictured below in the water with an exactness 
which, if one could have looked at the picture 
upside down, would have given the impression 
that the image in the water was the reality and 
the reality above was the image. This was while 
the sun shone. Then presently the sun would be 
obscured by a passing cloud, and immediately 
the reflection in the water would lose its dis- 
tinctness and become darker and more mys- 
terious and beautiful. 

Arthur Keene, the man who was fishing, 
was somewhere about thirty-five years of age; 
he was a young man of education, means and 
position, whose home was in a large seaport 
city of the New England States. He was an 


132 


NATE SAWYER 


engineer by profession and had built railroads, 
bridges, reservoirs and docks; he had dredged 
out harbors and had dug canals. His business 
had taken him to many parts of the world; he 
had been mixed up w!ith a South American 
revolution, had been wrecked in the China Seas, 
had come in contact wdth the German authorities 
in Samoa, and had been escorted to the Albanian 
frontier by the Turkish police. Quite recently 
he had fallen heir to a moderate fortune, had 
given up the active practice of his profession and 
had become a consulting engineer. He had a 
small office in a very large office building, be- 
longed to two or three clubs, had no very repre- 
hensible habits and was a confirmed old bachelor 
and all round good fellow. 

He had now come into the Adirondack 
woods partly for pleasure and partly upon busi- 
ness. His uncle, John Wainwright, a financier 
of Boston, owned a tract of timber land in the 
Adirondack forest of some thirty thousand acres. 
For a long time the old gentleman had been 
bothered by timber thieves. They cut down his 
trees right and left. He couldn’t catch them at 
it and he couldn’t prevent it, so that quite fre- 
quently he pounded the table with his fist, 
hopped up and down with rage and swore 
scandalously. His nephew, Arthur Keene, had 
now undertaken to discover the identity of these 
freebooters. This was one of the reasons why 
he was camping in the woods with the old guide, 
and was also the reason why he proposed to 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 133 

visit Stephen Marwood, the man who owned 
the saw mills upon Otter Creek and at Glendale. 
As, however, all this has very little, if anything 
to do with the story, it will not be necessary to 
go into further particulars about the matter. 

Arthur Keene was tall and thin, broad- 
shouldered and long-legged. He was not, 
strictly speaking, a handsome man. There was 
that, however, in his athletic figure, his smooth- 
shaven face, his clean-cut features, the smile 
with which he spoke and the twinkle in his gray 
eyes which made him good and wholesome to 
look at. 

The guide was a small, sinewy old fellow, 
whose age it would have been hard to determine. 
His scanty hair was of a tawny gray, his lantern- 
jawed, Yankeefied face was smooth-shaven, or 
rather it had been smooth-shaven a week or so 
before, his mouth was wide, and his lips thin, 
and when he laughed, which he did at frequent 
intervals while he was speaking, as if it were to 
punctuate his remarks, he showed two or three 
yellow stumps of teeth, resembling nothing so 
much as the straggling half-fallen stones of a 
very old graveyard. He wore no beard, with 
the exception of a tuft of reddish-gray hair, 
which, rising up from no one knew how far 
down his long neck, fell over the gray woolen 
shirt-collar, very much like the beard of a goat. 

Nate Sawyer was the name of this peculiar 
personage, and, as noted above, he was of an 
uncertain age. He looked to be fifty, but to one 


134 


NATE SAWYER 


who examined him closely it seemed just pos- 
sible that he was sixty or even older. He had 
been a guide in the Adirondack region so long 
that visitors to that locality could not remember 
a time when he was not a guide. He* made 
his headquarters on the eastern border of the 
forest, and it was from this point that the party 
of two which we are describing had entered 
the wilderness. 

There were many singular traits in the 
character of Nate. His actions, his gestures, 
and his words were so original, so unexpected 
and so comical, that he was a constant source 
of surprise and joy to those who found them- 
selves in his society. 

In fact, it was said by those who professed 
to know the old gentleman thoroughly that he 
had a screw loose somewhere, or that he had 
rooms to let in the upper story, though one might 
talk with him a whole day and not come to such 
a conclusion. 

It was a curious fact that Nate had no 
antecedents. He was not a native of the small 
town which he made his headquarters, neither 
was it known from what part of the country 
he had come. He had simply turned up there 
a number of years before as a piece of driftwood 
is thrown by the tide upon the beach. He was 
the erratic character of the place, and a mystery 
to the people, and they shook their heads when 
asked about him as a matter beyond and above 
their comprehension. 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 135 

Nate Sawyer also had his disagreeable 
qualities. Besides being contradictory and stub- 
born, he had the reprehensible habit of mixing 
himself up in the conversation of his employers, 
and of commenting upon every topic which was 
broached. He was also an inveterate boaster, 
and, to believe him, nothing ever had been or 
ever would be done in any direction whatever 
better than he had done or could or would do 
it himself. Great must have been the virtues of 
Nate to counterbalance his shortcomings, and 
great indeed they were. He knew every foot 
of the ground bounded by the Black River on 
the west, by Lake Champlain and Lake George 
on the east, and by the Mohawk and the St. 
Lawrence rivers, respectively, on the south and 
north. His legs seemed to be made of india- 
rubber and to move with the regularity and 
tirelessness of a machine. He could paddle a 
boat as fast as an ordinary man could row it, 
and, if necessary, without making the least 
sound. He knew where and how trout could 
be caught at any time of the season; and if there 
was a buck within fifty miles he could bring you 
within sight of it. Add to this the fact that 
Nate was a most cleanly and artistic cook, and 
we can see why, notwithstanding his many de- 
fects, he was the guide most sought after by 
visitors to the great forest of the Adirondacks. 

Nate was also an inveterate story-teller. He 
was possessed of an inexhaustible fund of yarns, 
the most of them connected with the woods in 


NATE SAWYER 


136 

which he had spent his life, and these yarns 
he spun upon the slightest provocation, and often 
at the most inconvenient times. When the spell 
was upon him and he had started in upon his 
narrative, it was useless to try to stop him. He 
was like the Ancient Mariner with the wedding 
guest. He did not hold his audience with a 
glittering eye, but he suspended all business, 
whatever it was, tramping, building of camps, 
rowing or cooking, until the story was told; 
so one just had to listen to him, as nothing could 
be done until he had unburdened himself. 

At the bottom he was of a kindly and 
religious nature and once a friend he was always 
a friend. Beneath his outside coating of eccen- 
tricities there was a vein of good, sterling com- 
mon sense, and he might always be depended 
upon to take the right side upon every moral 
question. He was “full of wise saws and 
modern instances,” and was possessed of an un- 
limited store of quaint sayings and proverbs 
which he used “to point a moral or adorn a 
tale.” 

Nate Sawyer presently remarked: 

“Speakin’ of Bill Covey, the old guide, 
seein’ that gray spook woman in the Devil’s 
Gorge, reminds me of somethin’ which happened 
right hereabouts. Bill Covey was an almighty 
good guide, speciully at deer-huntin’. In those 
days, as it is now, it was agin the law to go 
arter deer with hounds. Waal, Bill Covey hed 
a way of barkin’ like a dawg that was een a 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 137 

most as good as ef he hed a hound with him. 
He’d leave the shootin’ party in the runways, 
and go scoutin’ around miles and miles through 
the woods, all the time barkin’ like a dawg, till 
he ended up by drivin’ what deer they wuz in 
them parts down to the runways where his party 
could get a shot at em. That barkin’ of hisn 
was sure a vallyble asset. Waal, one day. Bill 
met up with a misforten. He was in a canoe 
in the middle of Hemlock Lake, which is a 
pond, a quarter of a mile across, and off there 
a mile or so to the west of where we be now, 
when he hed a coughin’ fit and, all on a sudden, 
he coughed his false teeth right outen his mouth 
into the lake. He spent two days tryin’ to fish 
em up outen the lake, but ’twant no use as the 
water was all of twenty feet deep at that pint 
where he lost em. This loss of his false teeth 
most certain sure put Bill in a hole. He couldn’t 
bark no longer and beside that, he couldn’t eat 
his vittles, let alone chewin’ tobakker, so he up 
stakes and puts for settled country, where he gets 
a new set of teeth from one of them dentist 
fellers. Howsomever, I don’t know how it was, 
but he never could bark nateral like as he useter, 
praps there wuz a difference in the teeth, but 
that has nothin’ to do with the story. A year 
or so arter that old Bill cashed in his checks, 
and pretty soon they began to tell awful queer 
yarns about that pond where Bill lost his teeth. 
Parties who camped there said as how at night, 
they could hear old Bill barkin’ like a dawg 


NATE SAWYER 


138 

out on the lake. I happened to be along there 
one time shortly arter I heard this and I allowed 
that I’d find out the truth about it; so I camped 
alongside the pond and, sure enough, when night 
came, I heard the barkin’ of a dawg out on the 
lake, for all the world as if ’twere old Bill. 
Then I walked around the lake, but it always 
seemed to come from the middle of the water. 
The thing kept up two or three hours, off and 
on, and then it stopped. Now comes the singeler 
part of it. Next day I wuz fishin’ in the pond 
and, of a sudden, I got a bite as if I’d ketched 
a whale. When I got the crittur into the boat, 
which I wuz all of an hour a doin’, so help me, 
it wuz a brook trout that weighed all of six 
pounds and measured all of two feet. He wuz 
an ugly-lookin’ old chap, scarred and marked 
with a hundred fights and looked to be leastways 
a hundred years old. Waal, when I cut that 
fish open, what d’yew think I found in his 
gullet? So help me, I found old Bill’s false 
teeth. Now I won’t say that it wuz that there 
fish that wuz doin’ the barkin’, but it’s the 
solemn truth that no one ever heard any barkin’ 
on the pond arter I caught the fish.” 

“Have you the teeth yet?” asked Keene. 

“Naw, what d’ I want of the teeth? I gave 
em to old Dan Ferguson’s wife, down Piseco 
way — she’s chewin’ with em yet.” 

Nate now paddled the boat to their camp, 
which stood upon the shore of the lake, and, 
after the evening meal, cooked by the guide, 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 139 

had been eaten, and when the shades of night 
had descended upon the forest, a smoking fire 
of pine branches was kindled, and the two men, 
stretched upon the ground before it, spent an 
hour or more in arranging their plans for the 
morrow and talking over the experiences of the 
days passed together in that delightful spot. 

have been wondering,” said Keene, 
“whether my luggage will have put in an ap- 
pearance at Glendale by the time I arrive. You 
know, Nate, that I left word to have it ex- 
pressed. It would be an awkward thing if it has 
not turned up after all. A man who has spent 
ten days roughing it in the woods wouldn’t 
make a very creditable impression in a respec- 
table and refined family.” 

“Yaas, yew take my word fer it, yew’ll want 
all your store close when yew git thar. They 
live in a house which is a regler castell, and 
there’s two gals there which, fer looks, has got 
all the women beat in these six counties.” 

“Who are the two girls, Nate?” 

“One of em is old Marwood’s darter and 
the other’s his niece. Say, they’re that good- 
lookin’ that they got all the young fellers crazy 
within forty miles. Did ye ever hear about the 
Marwoods where yew come from? No? Waal, 
the history of that family would make excitin’ 
readin’, and that’s a fact. In the first place, 
that’s to say, when they first came here, twenty 
or thirty years ago, there wuz two brothers of 
em, Steve Marwood and Kit Marwood. Steve 


140 


NATE SAWYER 


wuz alius a mean kind of an old skinflint, cold 
and calculatin’ and that religious that he 
wouldn’t look sideways on Sunday. Kit Mar- 
wood wuz a different kind of a man altogether. 
Everyone liked Kit. He wuz free and easy 
and good-natured, and a feller cornin’ to him 
with a hard luck story never went away without 
somethin’. Kit though had a devil of a temper. 
He’d git riled mighty quick, then, when he got 
over it, he’d ask your parding and yew ginerally 
thought more of him than ever. Now there 
wuz a man named Beriah Crane, who hed a 
small mill on Otter creek, above the Marwood 
mills. He wa’nt of no account in pertikler, and 
hed a hard time to git along. Waal, the Mar- 
woods, wantin’ to git more power, bought up 
all the land on the creek above Crane’s, and 
put up a big dam there and shut off Crane’s 
water, so that he wuz put out of bizness. With 
that he sues em, and kept on suin’ em till the 
thing had run on four or five years, and he had 
used up what little money he had with them 
consarned sharks of lawyers. Things wuz in 
this shape when the three of em, Steve and Kit 
Marwood and Beriah Crane, met on the banks 
of the creek, up in the woods, to argify matters. 
Kit said somethin’ to Crane and Crane said some- 
thin’ ornery to Kit, which got his dander up 
somethin’ awful, so that he up and fetched 
Crane a crack on the pate which knocked him 
endways. Whether it wuz the crack, or whether 
his head hit on a stone, I don’t know. Enyway 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 141 

they looked him over and found that he wuz 
deader than a mackerel. No one knows what 
they did with the body, most likely buried it, 
or hove it into the creek, enyway, no one ever 
met up with it. That night Kit Marwood lit 
out fer furrin parts, and never came back. Mind 
yew, this is, the most of it, hearsay and what 
folks made up out of their own heads. They 
say that Kit Marwood made a fortin on the 
other side of the water and that he married there 
and had one child, a darter, and that at last he 
and his wife died; at which, Steve Marwood 
went and brought the child home with him to 
live. I don’t know how much of this is true. 
Enyway, there is the gal at Marwood’s house to 
prove part of it.” 

“What is the reason they didn’t extradite Kit 
Marwood and try him for the murder of 
Crane?” 

“Extrydite, is it? They couldn’t extrydite 
him. In the first place they couldn’t meet up 
with him, though I’ve heard tell that they tried 
to. In the second place, they couldn’t fasten no 
crime onto him. I know somethin’ of the law 
myself, and I know yew’ve either got to find the 
body, or else yew’ve got to prove the killin’ by 
eye witnesses. Sarcumstantial evidence don’t 
go, when yew can’t find the body. There wuz 
no one saw him killed and no one ever found 
the corpse. So that’s all there is to it.” 

The old guide now knocked out the ashes 
from his pipe and proceeded to fill it from a 


142 


NATE SAWYER 


package of scrap tobacco, of which he always 
seemed to have a limitless supply. This done, 
he stretched himself more at his ease before 
the fire and puffed away contentedly. Arthur 
Keene then commenced to tell of his various 
and thrilling experiences by land and sea in 
the many quarters of the globe to which his 
affairs had taken him. Old Nate was a most 
interested and delighted listener, and, now and 
then, he interposed a remark so wise, so hu- 
morous and so pat to the purpose, that Keene 
could not but wonder at his shrewdness, his 
knowledge of the world, and his kindly phil- 
osophy. 

“Mr. Keene,” at length interrupted old Nate, 
“these adventures of yourn in furrin parts is 
sure some surprisin’, but I can tell ye a story 
about somethin’ which happened on this very 
lake which is as curus as anythin’ ye hev met up 
with in all your travels. Yew remember lookin’ 
at that there tumble-down shack over on the 
pint? I wuz campin’ there about twenty years 
ago or more, along with another guide, named 
Shorty McCabe, and some city chaps. Waal, 
we wuz eatin’ breakfast one Sunday mornin’ 
when, all at onct, we heered a drum and a bugle. 
Natchully, we all ran out on to the dock, which 
wuz standin’ there then, to see what ’twas all 
about and, lookin’ up the lake, we saw, a mile 
away, cornin’ round the bend, a percession of 
three boats filled with people. The boats wuz 
all ornymented with evergreens and, in the bow 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 143 

of the fust boat there wuz a pole with a white 
flag onto it.” 

“Now as soon as I see the percession I knew 
what ’twas, because of hevin’ heered all about 
the bizness. It seems that a man whose name 
wuz Dr. Teed, and who wuz a herb doctor, had 
got tired of pizenin’ people without sufficient 
remooneration, and he’d invented a new religion, 
constitootin’ himself the head of the same, and 
callin’ himself God’s Rice Gerent.” 

“You mean God’s Vice Gerent,” suggested 
Keene. 

“Waal, somethin’ like that, but I don’t see 
as it matters. Now this Dr. Teed hed built a 
large wooden shack around the hill there at the 
head of the lake, which he called the tabernacle, 
and hed gathered round him a crowd of looney 
people, made up of short-haired women and 
long-haired men, who called theirselves his 
disciples, and here they wuz cornin’ down the 
lake, a heatin’ on drums and a blowin’ on bugles, 
and what’d ye think they wuz cornin’ down fer? 

“So help me they wuz cornin’ down to see 
this man Teed walk on the water, which he hed 
promised to do, when he hed got to the outlet. 
Waal, fer some reason, he hed decided to land 
at our dock, wishin’, I suppose, to put the thing 
off as long as possible. When the fust boat kem 
up to the dock, the Vice Gerent wuz a-standin’ 
in the bow. As he went to step from the boat, 
he wuz lookin’ straight ahead of him, solemn 
like, as if he wuz seein’ things and, not bein’ 


144 


NATE SAWYER 


keerful where he stepped, he missed his footin’ 
and went kerplunk into the lake. Did he walk 
on the water? Not to any great extent. He 
went plumb to the bottom like a stone. Then 
he riz to the top, and wuz jest sinkin’ for the 
second time, when I grabbed up a boat hook 
offen the dock and fished around and hooked it 
inter the waistband of the back of his breeches 
and. Shorty McCabe helpin’, pulled him out 
onto the dock. Say, he wuz a sight. A droundid 
rat was nothin’ to him. Did I get any thanks 
fer it? Not so’s yew could notice it. One ole 
woman sed as how I oughter be ashamed of 
m’self, and she hoped Elisha’s bears would get 
me fer handlin’ God’s anointed in sech a brutal 
way.” 

“Now about this Dr. Teed: I heerd of him 
shortly arterwards in Chicawgo and agin in 
Californy, and a year or two ago, I seen in the 
papers he’d died in Floridy at the ripe old age 
of eighty; that he hed a plantation there of 
more’n fifty thousand acres, which was called 
New Jerusalem, and a colony of some thousands 
of disciples who chipped in whenever he sed 
the word, and that he wuz worth more’n a 
million dollars.” 

“I tell ye, this inventin’ of new religions 
pays. There wuz Dr. Teed and Elder Dowie 
and Joseph Smith and a man named Miller and 
a lot of others whose names I disremember. 
Didn’t they all make big fortens outen it? I 
tell ye though, Mr. Keene, the old religion is 


A MUNCHAUSEN OF THE FOREST 145 

good enough fer me. More’n twenty-five years 
ago I pinned my faith to it, and I’ve never been 
sorry for it. 

“It beats all how all those new religion fel- 
lers will put up that bluff about walkin’ on the 
water. Walkin’ on the water seems to appeal 
to em. Howsomever, I never see but one chap 
get away with it. He wuz a long-haired nervy 
cuss what lived at Genevy, a town in Western 
N’York on Seneca Lake. He give out, that sech 
a day, at sech an hour, he was goin’ fer to walk 
on the lake. Waal, when the time kem and he 
got down there, there wuz more’n a thousand 
people on hand to see him do it. And he sez 
to em, sez he: ^Hev ye faith that I kin walk on 
the water?’ and they all shouted out ‘Naw.’ 
‘Then,’ sez he, it don’t go. I can’t walk on the 
water unless ye hev faith. Go away and come 
down here next week on the same day and hour 
and, ef ye hev faith, I will walk on the water.’ 
Waal, the time kem round agin, and by that 
time there wuz twict as many people as before. 
And he sez to em, sez he: ‘Hev ye faith that I 
kin walk on the water?’ And they cried out 
‘Yes.’ ‘Do you really and truly believe that I 
kin do it?’ and they all shouted: ‘You bet we 
do.’ ‘Then,’ sez he, ‘There’s no use in my doin’ 
it,’ and with that, he lights out and leaves em.” 

“Where did you fasten the boat, Nate?” 
asked Keene suddenly. “I didn’t see it as I 
strolled down to the lake after supper.” 

“I hauled it up on the right of that big rock 

10 


146 


NATE SAWYER 


down there. I allowed it would be safer there 
ef the wind got up.” 

“But if you hauled it up to the right of the 
rock, I would have seen it, and Ell swear that it 
wasn’t there.” 

“I’ll bet ye a dollar it’s there,” cried Nate, 
springing to his feet and hastening down to the 
beach. Keene followed him. When they came 
within sight of the rock, the right-hand side of 
which was alone visible from the direction in 
which they came, there was no boat to be seen. 
Nate, however, without hesitating, passed around 
to the other side of the rock and called out: 

“Here she is! and it’s a good thing ye didn’t 
bet.” 

“But you said the right-hand side,” objected 
Keene. “And the boat is drawn up on the left- 
hand side.” 

“Certainly I said the right-hand side; and 
isn’t it the right-hand as ye come in with the 
boat? Ef it's the right-hand side one time, it’s 
the right-hand side all the time. That’s the way 
I figger.” 


CHAPTER II 
The Devil’s Gorge 

After they had turned in for the night it 
began to rain; then the wind arose and swept 
through the forest with a sound like the break- 
ing of heavy surf upon the shore. Now and 
then they could hear the crashing of a branch 
above them, and often the water would come 
trickling through the bark roof of their leanto 
upon their faces, and they would have to get 
up and change their positions. To repay them, 
however, for the discomforts of the night, ^the 
sun arose within a sky which showed a few 
fleecy clouds, which were sailing along before 
a brisk, cool breeze. The rain-drops still hung 
upon the leaves and glistened in the grass. The 
air was fresh and invigorating, and Keene felt 
that it was just the day for his long journey 
through the forest. After a hasty breakfast the 
two men made such small preparations as were 
necessary, and, taking one of the two boats which 
they possessed, started ofl on their voyage. 

Twelve or fifteen miles of the journey were 
to be made by water. There were four lakes in 
the chain, and only one carry was necessary, — 
that from the third to the fourth lake. Nate 
expected to reach the end of the fourth lake by 
eleven o’clock, they having started at six in the 

147 


NATE SAWYER 


148 

morning; and then the arduous part of their 
task was to begin. 

The day was a fine one. The deep-blue sky 
was almost clear of clouds, and what wind there 
was blew in the right direction. There was a 
pleasant ripple upon the water, and the green 
of the forest seemed brighter and more emerald- 
like on account of the recent rain. Nothing in 
nature could be imagined more wild and 
picturesque, more varied and changing, than 
the different vistas which opened to their gaze 
as they followed the windings of the lake, or 
sped rapidly along the dark forest-hemmed 
streams. Now they would paddle along some 
narrow neck of the body of water, the steep 
limestone cliffs rising on either side within a 
stone’s throw, and giving back their voices in 
startling echoes. Then suddenly they would 
dart forth into what seemed a small wood-sur- 
rounded basin, seemingly without an outlet, and 
into which no man had come before, startling 
a covey of ducks or other aquatic fowl. Now 
they would skirt a rocky promontory, whose 
boulders had taken queer, outlandish shapes, like 
the distorted figures and faces of men or animals, 
and anon, suddenly turning with a bend of the 
lake, the extent of water would widen to a mile 
or more, and its fringe of forest would dwindle 
in the distance, until it looked a green hazy rim. 

When they started in the early morning, a 
mountain could be seen rising from the wilder- 
ness away off to the north upon their right hand. 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


149 


It looked blue and indistinct with the distance, 
and its head was encircled with a wreath of 
cloud. All the morning long it was never out 
of sight. Sometimes it seemed quite near them, 
and they could make out the forms of the 
gigantic pines and hemlocks with which it was 
clothed, or the ragged outlines of its crags and 
fissures. At other times it would be as at first, 
only a dim blue outline, according as the twist- 
ing and turning of the lakes brought them near 
or carried them away from it. 

It must not be supposed that Nate held his 
peace during the long transit across the waters 
of the chain of lakes. In fact, he kept up an 
incessant talking upon one subject or another. 
He was familiar with every point which came 
into view, and always had some anecdote to re- 
late in reference to it, in which, of course, he 
himself had played the all-important part. Some- 
times Keene would listen to him, but the greater 
part of the time he seemed occupied with his 
own thoughts, which were so engrossing that the 
monotonous clack of the old man’s tongue ex- 
cited his attention no more than the dash of 
the paddle in the water, or the slapping of the 
ripples against the bow of the boat. At certain 
intervals, however, Nate would draw the long 
bow so audaciously that the twang of it would 
have roused the seven sleepers. 

Presently the guide cast a judicial eye around 
upon the water. 

‘T reckon it wuz right about here,” said he, 


150 NATE SAWYER 

“that I hed the race with Shorty McCabe and 
the deer.” 

“How was it?” asked Keene. “You and 
Shorty against the deer, or every one for him- 
self?” 

“Neither the one or the other. Shorty and 
the deer wuz goin’ tandem and I wuz goin’ it 
alone. Yew see it wuz this away — Shorty and 
I wuz in a skiff, paddlin’ toward that rock ledge 
over on the north shore. All at onct, when we 
hed got within a hundred feet of it, a tarnation 
big buck comes out of the brush there on the 
ledge and stands lookin’ at us. Shorty up with 
his rifle quick, and hit the buck right between 
the eyes, and he dropped plumb dead on the 
rocks, about six feet from the water. Leastways, 
we supposed he wuz dead. Waal, we landed 
and Shorty took a half-inch hemp line, about 
thirty feet long, which we hed in the boat, and 
made it fast to the deer’s horns, meanin’ to throw 
the other end. over a tree, which stood near by, 
so’s we could hoist him up and skin and dress 
the critter. Shorty took the other end of the 
line and tied it round his middle, so’s he’d hev 
his hands free, and went to climb the tree. When 
he wuz half way up, that buck riz right up on 
his feet, and stood there a second or two, sorter 
dazed like. I hollered to Shorty, but I wuz 
too late. The deer took a jump about fifteen 
feet out into the lake, and Shorty went down 
outen the tree and into the water, without 
touchin’ ground. I pushed the boat off and 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 15 1 

jumped into it and, before I cud lay hold of the 
paddle, they wuz fifty feet away, makin for 
tother side of the lake. It wuz a good light 
skiff and I’m purty good with a paddle, but I 
couldn’t overhaul em, do my darndest. I wuz 
afraid Shorty’d be drowndid, so I hollered out: 
‘Cut the rope, yew tarnation fool!’ ‘Naw, I 
won’t cut no rope,’ he hollered back. Yew can 
see that the lake is all of a mile wide at that pint. 
Waal, thet buck wa’nt more’n four minutes 
gittin’ acrost. I timed him by my watch. 
When the deer made the shore, he lepped into 
the brush in the shake of a lamb’s tail. Shorty 
goin’ arter him and takin’ steps ten feet long. 
I saw at onct it wa’nt no use follerin’ of em. 
They wuz goin’ sech a clip that I wa’nt in their 
class, so I sot in the boat waitin’ fer Shorty to 
come back. It wuz all of two hours before he 
kem outen the woods. His face and his hands 
wuz scratched and bleedin’ somethin’ awful, his 
coat and shirt wuz most torn offen his back, and 
I wouldn’t hev put his pants on a scarecrow. I 
seed a piece of frayed rope hangin’ to him, about 
three feet long, and I sez to him, sez I : “What 
ye done with the buck?” 

“I didn’t do nothin’ with him,” sez he. 

“Did ye cut the rope?” sez I. 

“Do I look like it?” sez he, and that wuz all 
I could get outen him.” 

“Nate,” said Keene, “you’re a wonder. With 
your extraordinary and vivid imagination, you 
could make a fortune with the publishers. Now 


152 


NATE SAWYER 


this Mr. McCabe, was he the gentleman whose 
slumbers you so ruthlessly and unceremoniously 
interrupted, the night you perceived the ignis 
fatuus upon the cliffside?” 

“Say, what yew talkin’ about? Oh, yaas, he 
wuz the very same feller. It sure brought me 
bad luck seein’ that ghost light.” 

“It seems to me, Nate, that Mr. McCabe was 
the man who had the bad luck. According to 
your own story, he had much the worst of it. 
He hadn’t seen any light; though he probably 
saw stars when you fell upon him through the 
roof of the shack. I’ve seen a good deal of the 
world, and I’ve made up my mind that there 
isn’t anything in this luck idea, either one way 
or the other. Let me get a look at that gray 
lady who walks along the side of the cliffs and 
I’ll tell you how she does it.” 

“Now, Mr. Keene, don’t yew go lookin’ arter 
her. Yew’ll find trouble enough natchully 
climbin’ down the gorge, without lookin’ fer 
it a purpose. When yew are takin’ that almighty 
resky road, yew don’t want to be thinkin’ about 
ghosts and sperits. Yew want to be thinkin’ 
about somethin’ cheerful. It’ll make the way 
easier and surer. The cheerfullest thing I knows 
of is another story about that same Shorty Mc- 
Cabe. It sure makes me cheerful, every time 
I think of it. Say, did I ever tell ye that story 
about Shorty McCabe and the woodchuck?” 

“I do not recollect, Nate, that you ever told 
me a story which contained a woodchuck.” 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


153 


*Waal, this wuz the way of it: Three year 
ago, last winter, it bein’ an uncommon hard 
winter. Shorty was trappin’ fur animals up on 
Cranberry River. He hed a shack built alongside 
the river, and was doin’ fairly well, though 
feelin’ sorter lonely like. About a half mile 
up the river, another trapper, named Si Hender- 
son, hed a shack, and there wuz still another 
shack, a mile further on, owned by a man named 
Hank Perkins. Now Shorty was a sawed-off, 
freckled-faced red-headed Irishman. He hed 
a big mouth, and when he grinned, which he 
did most of the time, it reached from one ear 
to tother. He wuz a good-natured, accommo- 
dating chap, but awful obstinate and a bad man 
to tackle when he got riled. On the other hand. 
Si Henderson was a sour, mean kind of a cuss, 
jest natchully grouchy and continooaly tryin’ 
to make hisself disagreeable. It was the day 
before Christmus and Shorty, feelin’ as I said, 
sorter lonely, dropped in to pay Si a call. Wall, 
Si begins tellin’ him at onct what a mighty fine 
Christmus dinner he wuz going to hev, and how 
he hed given Hank Perkins a invite to eat it 
with him. A feller hed come by with a pack 
the day before, and hed brought him a mince 
pie, and a plum puddin’ and doughnuts and jelly 
and celery and raisins and all that sort of trim- 
min’s. He took Shorty to the cupboard and 
showed em to him, and went on describin’ the 
banquet he wuz goin’ to hev, till Shorty’s mouth 
watered to think of it. 


154 


NATE SAWYER 


“ ‘But that’s not all,’ says Si. ‘I got somethin’ 
a heap better’n all that.’ Then he took Shorty 
into the shed, where he’d hung it upon a nail, 
to keep it cold, and showed him a uncommon 
big fat buck rabbit, skinned and dressed, which 
he hed shot the day before. ‘I’m goin’ to stuff 
it with bread crumbs and sage and onions and 
salt pork, chopped up fine,’ sez he, ‘and baste 
it with butter and salt and pepper.’ Shorty 
thought all the time that he wuz goin’ to get 
a invite to the dinner hisself, but when Si never 
ast him, he said, ‘Good evenin’, pleasant like 
and left and went hum. When he got there he 
set thinkin’ about thet dinner, and the longer he 
set, the more he thought that Si Henderson wuz 
the meanest cuss alive. Presently he sez to him- 
self, sez he: ‘I’ll fix him.’ So he got up and 
went to a woodchuck’s hole in the neighborhood, 
that he knowed of, and smoked the critter out 
and killed him. He was tarnation big fer a 
woodchuck, and, when he hed skinned and 
dressed him, and cut the head and paws off, 
he looked uncommon like a good sized buck 
rabbit. Waal, the next mornin’, bright and 
early, when he knowed that Si Henderson would 
be off lookin’ arter his traps, he took the beast 
and the skin and went up to Si Henderson’s 
shack, and picked the lock with a nail, and took 
the rabbit down, and hung the woodchuck up 
instead. Then he went around outside of the 
back, where Si hed the rabbit’s skin nailed on 
the door, and he pried it off and nailed the 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


155 


woodchuck’s skin in its place. Then he went 
back hum and stuffed the rabbit and put it in the 
oven to bake. When it kem noon time, when 
he thought that Si and Hank would be eatin’ 
dinner, he went up to Si’s and dropped in casual 
like. When he kem in, they wuz jest finishin’ 
off the woodchuck, and each of em hed a hind 
laig in his hand, a-cleanin’ of it with his teeth. 

“Seein’ as it wuz all eaten up. Si sez to 
Shorty: ‘Sit down. Shorty,’ sez he, ‘and try a 
piece of this rabbit.’ ‘Naw,’ sez Shorty, ‘I never 
did care fer woodchuck.’ ‘What ye mean by 
that?’ sez Si. ‘What I mean’, sez Shorty, ‘is 
that I never could abide the taste of that animile. 
Ef I swallowed one bit of it, it would sure turn 
my stummick.’ ‘D’yew mean to say,’ sez Si, that 
this ere is not a rabbit?’ ‘I sure do,’ sez Shorty, 
‘Look at them laigs. Did ye ever see laigs like 
them on a rabbit?’ With that. Hank Perkins 
looked at the laig which he held in his hand. 
‘It surely is uncommon short for a rabbit’s laig,’ 
sez he. ‘Say, yew fellers,’ sez Si, ‘would ye know 
a rabbit’s skin, ef ye saw one?’ ‘Sure,’ sez Hank 
Perkins and Shorty. ‘Then, come with me and 
I’ll show ye the skin of this one we jest eat.’ 
Sayin’ that, he got up and took em around to 
the back of the house. When he saw the wood- 
chuck’s skin, with its hed and short ears and 
short paws nailed to the door, he stood as if 
he wuz goin’ to throw a fit. Hank Perkins put 
his hand on his stummick and made a face as if 
he wuz goin’ to die, ‘Quick!’ sez he, ‘Where’s 


NATE SAWYER 


156 

the whiskey?’ with that he runs around to the 
front of the shack and into the door, and Si and 
Shorty arter him. ‘Why, I knowed all the time. 
Hank,’ sez Shorty, ‘thet the animile wuz a wood- 
chuck, but I said nothin’ cause I allowed Si 
wuz goin’ to hev a leetle fun with ye.’ ‘He wuz, 
wuz he?’ hollered Hank Perkins, ‘Waal, I’ll 
teach yew. Si Henderson, that yew can’t feed me 
no woodchuck.’ With thet he lights into Si 
Henderson, and the things thet happened fer 
the next five minutes in that shack wuz some- 
thin’ shameful. When they got through, it wuz 
like a battle field. Si and Hank, and the floor 
and the ceilin’ and walls, wuz jest plastered 
with stuffin’ and gravy and jelly and pie and 
puddin’ and butter and a lot of other things, 
too numerous to mention. All the time it wuz 
goin’ on. Shorty McCabe stood in the doorway 
a-laffin’ at em. When they got more quiet and he 
couldn’t laff enny more, he wuz so weak, he 
went home and got the rabbit outen the oven 
and set down and eat his Christmus dinner, 
peaceful and happy. 

“Waal, thet’s the end of the story, Mr. 
Keene; and yew sure will allow thet it’s a cheer- 
ful one. I often think of it when I feel sorter 
down in the mouth like. It chirks me up won- 
derful. I jest got to the end of it in time, too, 
fer here we are, at the end of our float; and now 
ye’ll have the puttiest tramp through the woods 
that ye ever hed.” 

As Nate spoke the boat grated against the 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


157 


gravel, and the old man sprang out and hauled 
it upon the bank. They had gained the end 
of the fourth lake in the chain, and their journey 
by land was now to commence. To their left 
was the outlet of the lake, which took the name 
of Otter Creek, the same stream upon which 
were situated, fifteen or twenty miles farther 
down, the mills of Stephen Marwood. 

Where the lake narrowed to the outlet the 
water was almost covered with a carpet of 
water-lily pads; but, the season not being suffi- 
ciently advanced, there were none of the flowers 
in bloom. This carpet of leaves, however, was 
divided in the center by the swift, deep, black 
current of the lake, as it swept onward into the 
outlet. The outlet itself, or creek, narrowed up 
after it left the lake until it rushed beneath 
the overarching forest, with scarcely the width 
of twenty feet. The great pine, hemlock, and 
tamarack-trees interlaced their branches above 
it, and it seemed altogether like some mytho- 
logical river, which, plunging into some great 
forest, is lost forever and swallowed up in the 
bowels of the earth. 

Such were the thoughts of Keene as he fol- 
lowed with his eye the deep, dark, turbulent 
torrent to the point where it was so mysteriously 
lost in the forest, and he felt the desire to take 
boat again and, trusting himself to the will of the 
stream, float down through this unknown region, 
and fathom the mysteries which he felt sure it 
contained. 


158 


NATE SAWYER 


“What is to hinder us, Nate, from paddling 
down the creek? The water seems deep, and 
the current, though strong, doesn’t look danger- 
ous. Furthermore, it would take us in the right 
direction.” 

Nate looked at his interlocutor very much as 
he would at an escaped lunatic. “There’s 
nothin’ to hinder us at all, unless it’s such trifles 
as bein’ drowned or knocked into a cocked hat 
goin’ over the falls. Sam Gridley tried it in 
’65, and he never said how he liked it, seein’ as 
how his head was stove in when they found him 
below Marwood’s mills a week arterwards. 
There was another gent went down eight or ten 
years arter that, and his boat kem down out of 
the woods empty. So ye see he never even got 
to the rapids. Mebbe ye’d prefer goin’ by boat, 
but ef ye go with me ye’ll have to walk, I guess.” 

With this, Nate, who had picked up out of 
the boat such small things as Keene had found 
it necessary to take with him, struck out in a 
not very well-defined path which led from the 
lake into the woods, and his employer followed 
him, with certain reservations in his mind as to 
the absolute correctness of his guide’s infor- 
mation about Otter Creek. 

Very soon the path, if path it might be 
called, vanished altogether. The forest became 
dense and sombre, and only a patch of blue 
sky, here and there, could be seen between the 
closely- thatched roof of pine and hemlock 
branches above their heads. To Keene’s mind, 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


159 


not the least indication or sign existed which 
might serve to guide them, and he could not 
help but admire the unhesitating accuracy and 
certainty of old Nate, who never deviating to 
the right or left, kept up his long swinging 
stride or shamble; a sort of an automatic, three- 
miles-to-the-hour gait, which the young man, 
though well trained and endowed with more than 
his own proper share of sinew and endurance, 
found it difficult to imitate. 

Now and then, at intervals ranging from 
fifteen minutes to an hour, they would come 
within sight or hearing of Otter Creek, which 
proved conclusively that the guide was taking 
the right direction. Presently they came upon 
a big black bear drinking at the edge of the 
stream. At the noise which the two men made 
crashing through the underbrush, the bear ceased 
drinking and, sitting upright upon his haunches, 
gazed at them for a long moment with a most 
comical expression of surprise and annoyance 
upon his countenance. He then dropped down 
upon all fours and silently trotted off into the 
forest. 

“He was more skeered than we were,” said 
Nate. “Did ye ever hear that story about Old 
Ike Brockway and Miss Davidson and the 
bear?” he asked after a few minutes. 

“No,” answered Keene, “I can’t say that I 
have. I would like to hear it though if you 
will guarantee that it is a perfectly true story.” 

“I will take my affidavy that every word of 


i6o 


NATE SAWYER 


it is the solemn gospel truth. Yew see it was 
like this; there was an old feller out Clearwater 
way named Ike Brockway, and he wa’nt so very 
old either, say fifty or thereabouts. He was six 
feet three inches tall and weighed two hundred 
and fifty pounds. It was all bone and muscle 
too, no extry flesh, and he was as strong as a 
horse and as tough as a piece of second growth 
hickory. YewVe heerd tell of men that could 
whip their weight in wildcats; make em cata- 
mounts and old Ike could get away with em. 
Ike was an old bach and that modest and bash- 
ful, pertikler as to women folks, that he’d go a 
mile outen his way to get rid of meetin’ up with 
a female. Waal, there was a widder woman in 
them parts named Miss Davidson. She was 
pretty near as old as Ike and about as big. She 
was six feet if she was an inch and broad to 
match. Now arter lookin’ over the stock of 
men folks around there, she hit on Ike Brock- 
way and allowed that she was goin to marry 
him, but old Ike, when someone told him of it, 
allowed, with a lot of dreadful strong language, 
that she wa’nt. Waal, it was five years ago last 
November; there wa’nt any snow on the ground, 
but it was awful cold, and Ike Brockway hitched 
up a team to a big, two-seated buckboard, to 
take some groceries to a huntin’ camp, some 
twenty miles into the wood. Me and another 
chap were goin’ with him to act as guides for 
the party of city fellers who was at the camp. 
Waal, at the last moment, along comes Miss 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE i6i 

Davidson and says as how she hed a sister livin’ 
somewhere along near the camp where Ike was 
goin’, that it was about time she paid her a visit 
and she guessed she’d go along too. Ike said she 
hed another guess comin,’ but she talked and 
persuaded that strenuous that Ike finally told 
her to come along. Then Miss Davidson she 
comes out to get in the buckboard. She hed on 
one of these big fur coats down to her heels, 
made of dawg skin, with long yeller and white 
fur, and she throws her things into the bottom 
of the wagon and jumps up on the front seat, 
side of old man Brockway. 

^‘Look a here,” says he, “women folks alius 
rides in the back seats.” 

“Waal here’s a woman that don’t ride in no 
back seat, Ike Brockway,” says she. “The front 
seat is good enough for me.” 

Then Ike saw that he couldn’t help it, and 
he was that mad that he said some cuss words 
under his breath and gave the horses a cut with 
his whip and away we started rattlety bang. But 
Miss Davidson she didn’t mind it, but snuggled 
up dost to old Brockway, and he edged away 
as far as he could on the off side of the seat. 
When we got well into the woods, that road 
was certainly terrible. It was a corduroy road, 
made of trees about eight inches thick, with here 
and there a fillin’ of cobble stones. Sometimes 
the wagon would go down into a hole three 
feet deep and sometimes it would jump up two 
feet high into the air. We hed hard work to 
11 


i 62 


NATE SAWYER 


keep in our seats and every time there’d come a 
bump, Miss Davidson would throw her both 
arms around old Brockway as ef she was goin’ 
to squeeze the daylight outen him. 

“Waal, when we’d got about halfway to the 
camp, Ike pulled up the team and says as how, 
the winter before, he’d found a curus kind of a 
cave, some two hundred feet off in the woods 
from the pint where we then were, and that he’d 
allowed to find out what there was of it, the first 
time he got the chance. So he hitched the team 
to a tree and we all set out to go with him to the 
cave. He says to Miss Davidson: 

“Yew set still in the buckboard till we come 
back.” 

But she says. 

“Not much I won’t set still in the buckboard. 
I’m a lone woman and there’s no tellin’ what 
bears and painters and sech like there is around 
here. Where yew go I go.” So go she did. 

Now arter we hed walked up a trail some 
two or three hundred feet, we came to a ravine 
and, in the side of a hill, which was all trees 
and rocks, there was a cave, a black, still-lookin’ 
hole, about seven feet high and three feet across. 

“I’m goin’ in there,” says old Brockway, “to 
see what I can find. Yew wait here for me.” 

“Yew got no business to go in that hole 
alone,” says Miss Davidson. “Ef yew go in. 
I’m goin with yew. Your folks is friends of 
mine and they’d expect me to look arter you.” 

“No, you’re not goin’ in with me,” says Ike. 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


163 


“Yes, I be goin’ in with yew?” says she. 

“Boys,” says old Brockway, “I won’t have 
her goin’ in with me. Ef she starts to foller me, 
yew jest hold her.” 

With that he goes into the cave and we starts 
to hold Miss Davidson, but she didn’t need no 
holdin,’ bein’ as how she never meant to go in 
at all. 

Waal, Ike had been in the hole about a 
minute, and we was a standin’ some fifty feet 
ofif a waitin’ for him when, all at once, we heard 
a noise, “Pad, pad, pad,” cornin’ along the trail, 
then all on a sudden, round the corner of the 
rocks, comes trottin’ a great she black bear, as 
big as a cow. She stopped and looked at us for 
a moment, as ef she said : “What the blazes you 
doin’ here?” Then, she headed for the cave and 
moseyed in as ef she lived there. Miss David- 
son made as if she was goin’ to faint and I 
hollered to old Brockway to look out, but we 
found arterwards that he thought we was foolin’ 
or somethin’. 

Presently we heard Ike a cryin’ out: “Miss 
Davidson, what yer a doin’ in here? I told 
yew to stay outside, ’Taint decent yew bein’ in 
here alone with a man. What yew ketchin’ 
hold of me fer? Hey, leggo there. Stop 
your squeezin’. Yew aint no lady to be doin’ 
this before witnesses. By Gum, you’re scratch- 
in’ my face. Ef yew wan’t a female woman 
I’d soak yew one for fair. Leggo, I say, you’re 
huggin’ me to break my breast bone. Ouch! 


1 64 NATE SAWYER 

leggo, by hokey, I’ll soak yew one an5rway.” 

With that we heard him soak the bear with 
a heavy, soft thud, not once, but a dozen times. 
Then there came grunts from the bear and howls 
from old Brockway and, all at once, he came 
burstin’ outen the hole like a house afire, with 
blood tricklin’ down his face and his close half 
offen him. When he saw Miss Davidson he 
fetched up short and stared at her as ef his 
eyes would pop outen his head. 

“Wan’t yew in the cave then?” said he, half 
crazy like. 

She drew herself up haughty as ennythin’. 

“What, I in that cave with yew,” says she. 
“I think I see myself goin’ in a cave with any 
man.” 

“Then, ef it wan’t yew, what, in Gawd’s 
name was it?” he asked, all shakin’ like. 

“That’s what it was, yew awful man,” says 
she, pintin to the bear, who was jest cornin’ 
outen the hole. 

When the bear got out, she stood up on her 
hind legs and opened her mouth and lolled out 
her tongue jest as ef she was a-laffin’ at old 
Brockway. Then, she dropped down on all 
fours again and ambled away into the woods as 
peaceable as ennythin’. 

“Waal, ding me ef I didn’t think it was yew,” 
says Ike. 

Miss Davidson at that let out a regler 
shriek. 

“What, yew good-fer-nothin old ignoramus! 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


165 

Yew take a nasty, black, four-legged creeter for 
me! That’s the same as callin’ me a bear. I’m 
a poor, lone woman and I’ve hed my trials but 
I’ve never been so doggoned insulted like this 
before.” 

Waal, old Brockway seen that he hedn’t 
spoke to her jest right and he tried to square him- 
self with her every which way, but it wan’t no 
use. She wouldn’t have no excuses and kep’ 
lambastin’ him in the buckboard, all the way in 
to the camp. 

When we got there, Ike hed to take to bed 
for two days, what with the scratches and sore 
bones that he got from the bear’s huggin’ and 
squeezin’, and all that time Miss Davidson she 
sat beside the bed pertendin’ she was a nursin’ 
of him, but she never let up a jumpin’ on him 
fer thinkin’ that the bear was her, till finally, 
he jest gave in and agreed to marry her to stop 
her talkin’, which he did shortly arterwards and 
now they’re livin’ quiet and contented together 
and all on account of that there bear.” 

“That story,” said Keene, “whatever else it 
is, has the indelible mark of truth upon it. I 
would have liked, however, to hear the bear’s 
side of the story.” They had now been walking 
between three and four hours, when, presently, 
with a change of the wind, came the distant sound 
of falling or rushing water. Keene called the 
old man’s attention to it, and asked what it was. 

“That’s where the first rapids begin,” he 
answered. “Ye see, the creek takes a fall, from 


i66 


NATE SAWYER 


hereabouts on, of about five hundred feet before 
it gets to Glendale; and that’s what makes 
boatin’ of it so mighty onpleasant-like. It’s 
nuthin’ here, howsoever, to what ’tis in the 
Devil’s Gorge. The gorge is about three miles 
long, and the water comes out of it a matter of 
three hundred feet lower than where it goes in. 
Ye’re to follow this gorge down on the left-hand 
side, and when ye get down to the bottom, it’s 
plain sailin’, followin’ the creek to Glendale.” 

“But how do you descend this gorge? It 
must be sort of rough walking,” objected Keene. 

“Sort of rough in spots like, but ye’ll have 
no trouble. Sometimes yew keep in the woods 
above the cut, and sometimes yew follow the 
side of the creek at the bottom of it, but ye’re 
all right ef ye take the left-hand side. Yew 
couldn’t go down the right-hand side ef ye tried. 
The farther ye go the harder and rougher it 
gets, till ye find yourself up stump and can 
go no further, and like enough ye can’t get back 
again. It’s a perilous, craggy place, that right- 
hand side, and yew don’t want to try it, unless 
ye’ve got wings, which it doesn’t appear ye hev.” 

“Well, you take me as far as the gorge, Nate, 
and I will risk the rest of it.” 

“Can’t do it,” responded the old man, shortly. 

“Can’t do it? and why not?” queried Keene, 
astonished. 

“Because it’s not accordin’ to contract. It’s 
three miles farther than I allowed to go. We’re 
ten miles from the lake now, and I was to take 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 167 

ye twelve. When I leave ye, we’ll be a matter 
of two miles and a half from the head of the cut, 
and ye’ve only to keep alongside of the creek 
and ye’ll get there easy enough.” 

Keene thought of arguing the matter further 
with the guide, but he seemed so doggedly ob- 
stinate in the position which he had taken that 
he wisely concluded that it would be of no use. 
Then again, the old man had a tramp before 
him of twelve miles back to the lake, and a row 
of fifteen miles or so before he regained the 
camp, all to be accomplished before midnight; 
so he did not feel like insisting on his guidance 
any longer than was absolutely necessary. He 
therefore held his peace and trudged along after 
Nate about an hour longer, when all at once the 
waters of the creek again broke into view, and 
the guide halted. 

“Waal, we’re here at last,” announced that 
worthy. 

“Yes, we’re here; there’s no doubt about 
that. But here isn’t Glendale, and the question 
is to get from here to there; but I think that I 
will have no difficulty in following your direc- 
tions, so hand me over my traps, and, after rest- 
ing for a few minutes. I’ll set out on my explor- 
ing expedition/’ 

“I wouldn’t waste much time in restin’ ef I 
were yew, young man! Ye’ve got some rough 
ground to get over yet, and it’s time to rest when 
ye get to Glendale. Es for me, I must be goin’^ 
so good-by, and good luck to ye!” 


i68 


NATE SAWYER 


Saying this, Nate gave Keene a hearty grasp 
of the hand, and turning, commenced im- 
mediately to retrace his steps through the forest, 
with the same tireless, swinging stride with 
which he had first set out from the lake. 

Keene was somewhat disconcerted at the 
unceremoniousness of the old man’s departure, 
and astonished to see him dispense with even 
a few moments’ repose, and start out on his home- 
ward journey apparently as fresh as when he 
had first left the boat. At the same time, the 
guide’s admonition recurred to his mind, and 
he rose and turned resolutely to the task before 
him. 

The creek now had become somewhat wider 
and deeper than it was where it left the lake, 
owing to the inflowing of several small tributary 
streams. The young man was travelling along 
the right-hand side of the stream, and the 
thought now struck him for the first time that 
in order to follow out the injunctions of the 
guide, and descend the gorge on the left-hand 
side, it would be first necessary to cross the 
creek; a very difficult undertaking, inasmuch 
as it was some forty feet wide and the current 
very deep and strong. He reasoned, however, 
that if the guide had directed him to take the 
left-hand side, there must be some point, before 
he reached the gorge, where the creek was 
fordable. 

It turned out as he had thought. After fol- 
lowing the torrent for about a mile he came to 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


169 


a place where the bed of the water-course had 
widened out to such an extent that the water 
was shallow enough to wade, and a few moments 
more found him on the left-hand instead of the 
right-hand side of Otter Creek. 

Half an hour more brought him to what he 
supposed the commencement of the gorge. The 
banks of the stream, which for some time had 
assumed a rocky character, now commenced to 
rise more and more above the surface of the 
water. The creek had become more swift and 
violent, owing to the rapid descent which it was 
making. Its bed was filled with immense 
boulders, over and around which the great 
volume of water dashed with tremendous vio- 
lence, sending its spray high into the air and 
covering the whole vicinity with moisture. At 
first he had no trouble in following the course 
of the stream, sometimes picking his way along 
the bed of the creek by the side of the water, 
leaping from stone to stone; and sometimes keep- 
ing upon the rocks above the water-course; but 
very soon it became more difficult. The crags 
on either side rose gradually, or, rather, the bed 
of the torrent sank, until on either side there 
was raised a clifi or wall of limestone almost a 
hundred feet in height, and he knew that he was 
now in earnest within the Devil’s Gorge or 
Canon. 

His journey grew more difficult with each 
step that he took. He had lately been follow- 
ing a very poor path, 'which skirted the summit 


170 


NATE SAWYER 


of the cliff. This path at length deviated and 
took a somewhat downward direction, and he 
now found himself creeping along a sort of 
ledge which was thirty or forty feet below the 
summit of the crags and at least one hundred 
feet above the boiling flood which seethed and 
foamed along at the bottom of the abyss. The 
ledge which he was treading grew momentarily 
more narrow, and now and then showed great 
fissures, the passing of which required the utmost 
coolness of which he was possessed. Finally, 
however, he came to a point from which farther 
progress seemed impossible, and he stopped to 
take breath and look around him. 

Nothing could be more wild and magnificent 
than the view which his position commanded. 
The gorge was perhaps two hundred feet wide 
at that point, and on either side the jagged, 
uneven cliffs arose like walls to the height of 
a hundred and fifty feet at least. Their summits 
again were crested with forest of pine and hem- 
lock, which arose eighty or a hundred feet 
higher, and the sky above seemed a long blue 
strip between the forest tops. A hundred feet 
below him beat and thundered and foamed the 
voluminous torrent, now twisted and contorted 
into curious shapes of white glistening foam, 
and now stretching along in deep, dark, ominous 
pools. 

He glanced over at the farther side of the 
canon. Down at the bottom there seemed a 
strip of dry land between the flood and the walls 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 17 1 

of the cliff, along which he might have walked 
with safety. He had noticed several times that 
the farther or right-hand side seemed much the 
safer and more accessible, and he now began 
to wonder whether he had followed rightly the 
directions of old Nate. He had surely said the 
left-hand side. As this thought passed through 
Keene’s mind, something else flashed suddenly 
before his imagination. On the night before, 
the old man had said that he had drawn the 
boat up on the right-hand side of the large 
boulder which lay upon the shore of the lake 
near their camp, and he had meant the left-hand 
side. Nate had made this mistake once or twice 
before during their stay in the woods. The 
truth came to him like lightning. The guide 
did not know his right hand from his left, and 
by following his directions he had taken the 
wrong side of the gorge and had got himself 
into what might be called a very serious pre- 
dicament. 

Now, Keene was a very sensible, reasonable 
fellow usually, but, at the same time, he had 
a certain obstinacy of character which often 
led him to persevere in certain lines of action, 
even after he found that the direction he had 
taken was not the best one; a sort of a desire 
to make right out of wrong; and this tendency 
in his nature was very unfortunate for him 
at the present time. He knew well enough that 
he was on the wrong side of the gorge. He 
had heard Nate say that it was impossible to 


NATE SAWYER 


172 

descend it on this side, and he knew that it was 
not yet too late to turn back, but the very idea 
of turning back was opposed to the chief char- 
acteristic of his nature, and he inwardly re- 
solved to descend the gorge on that side at all 
hazards. 

He saw that there was a projecting ledge of 
rock which skirted the cliff some twenty feet 
higher than the point upon which he stood, and 
imagined that if he could once gain this ledge 
his task would be easier. It was a very difficult 
and hazardous undertaking. There were a few 
stunted hemlock-bushes clinging to the cliff, and 
one or two points of vantage in the rock itself, 
upon which he might rest his foot or grasp with 
his hand, and after herculean effort he at last 
succeeded in reaching the higher elevation. He 
then followed the narrow and insecure path which 
the ledge afforded for about sixty feet, and pass- 
ing around a projecting angle of the cliff, found, 
to his dismay, that further progress was next to 
impossible. The projecting ledge continued, it 
is true, along the wall of the gorge, but directly 
at his feet yawned a fissure or crevasse which 
extended into the bowels of the mountain, the 
bottom of it being seventy-five feet below him, 
and extending in height to the top of the cliff. 
How far this smaller gorge or opening stretched 
into the hills he could not see, as, at a small 
distance from its mouth, its direction changed; 
but it must have been some distance, as there 
was at the bottom of it a goodly-sized stream. 


THE DEVIL’S GORGE 


173 


which shot down in a feathery waterfall into 
the waters of the Devil’s Gorge. 

He now retraced his steps to the commence- 
ment of this particular ledge, with the idea of 
descending to the point from which he had 
climbed, but going down was a very different 
thing from coming up, and he had to acknow- 
ledge to himself that the thought was madness. 
Any ordinary man would have weakened at this 
point in the proceedings, but Keene was not an 
ordinary man. His nerve and energy were of 
the kind that rise to the occasion. He once more 
paced the narrow foot-path, until he arrived at 
the fissure in the rock, and set to work calcu- 
lating the chances of being able to clear the 
chasm with a spring. 

A running jump would have been an easy 
matter, but the narrowness of the ledge upon 
which he stood put it out of the question; 
neither did he have the free scope for a square 
stand-up jump. As an offset to this, however, 
he saw that if he missed the opposite ledge, he 
could at least grasp it with his hands and elbows 
and let himself down upon a small jutting plat- 
form of stone, some eight feet below it, from 
which in some way he could eventually climb 
to the wished-for path. 

He nerved himself for a moment, felt his 
pulse to see if he were cool, carefully took his 
position opposite the objective point, counted 
ten, and jumped. 

Somehow he had miscalculated matters. 


174 


NATE SAWYER 


Perhaps the ledges were not on exactly the same 
level ; perhaps the distance was greater than he 
imagined. At any rate, his breast struck against 
the opposite clifif. It was a terrible blow, and 
knocked the breath entirely out of him; at the 
same time, his hands clutched upon the rough 
upper surface of this ledge; his nails fairly dug 
into the stone. He was conscious of making 
one convulsive effort to hold himself in the right 
position so that he would drop upon the pro- 
jecting platform below the ledge. He was con- 
scious of a dull thud, as of a heavy object falling 
upon the rock, and then his senses seemed to 
have left him, for he beheld standing before 
him, not ten paces away, and looking at him, the 
most beautiful girl he had ever seen, or had ever 
imagined in all his life. 

“The Gray Ghost Girl of the Cliffs!” 
ejaculated he. 


CHAPTER III 
A Votary of Diana 

“Say nothing, and do just as I tell you. In 
the first place, keep perfectly quiet and look 
right at me all the time.” 

No, he was certainly not out of his senses. 
This was no apparition, no creation of a be- 
numbed and bewildered brain. There stood the 
girl right before him, and it was certainly she 
who had just spoken. These were the thoughts 
of the youth who, having pulled himself to- 
gether, assumed a half-sitting attitude on the 
narrow projection upon which he had fallen 
and rubbed his eyes to assure himself that he 
was not dreaming. 

“You are very lucky to have fallen as you 
did. There is no danger as long as you do not 
move; neither must you look down lest you be- 
come dizzy.” 

Keene now realized that the speaker stood 
opposite him, upon a jutting ledge or projec- 
tion which skirted the other side of the narrow 
chasm which he had tried to leap. Her position 
was such that she must have been standing al- 
most directly under him when he had made 
the unfortunate jump, and, on account of the 
shelving nature of the clifi, she had been hidden 
from his view until now, 


175 


NATE SAWYER 


1^6 

The ledge or path upon which she stood con- 
tinued on up into the fissure as far as he was 
able to see, which, on account of the winding 
nature of the crevasse, was not very far. It 
must have been eight or ten feet under the point 
. from which he had sprung and about on a level 
with the projection upon which he now found 
himself. 

In appearance she was as singular as she 
was beautiful, and any one, on seeing her under 
such circumstances as Keene did, would have 
been struck dumb with astonishment, and would 
have remembered the apparition vividly to the 
last day of his life. 

She was of medium height, which, for a 
woman, is about five feet four inches. Her form 
was somewhat slender, but with rounded lines; 
lines which at the same time had something in 
them of agility and vigor. Her costume was 
bizarre in the extreme. She wore a very tight- 
fitting gray corduroy jacket and a plain short 
skirt of the same material, which descended to 
the tips of a trim pair of russet shoes. Her 
small waist was belted tightly in with a russet 
strap and a large silver buckle. A little gray 
velvet cap with a gray feather was perched 
jauntily in the midst of her brown curly locks; 
and slung by another strap, which passed around 
her shoulders, was a very diminutive single- 
barrelled fowling-piece. 

The young man followed her instructions, 
as to looking at her and at nothing else, to the 


A VOTARY OF DIANA 


177 


letter, and inwardly made up his mind that it 
was quite an easy and certainly a very pleasant 
thing to do; and all the time it seemed to him 
that there must be some mistake about it after 
all, for how on earth could she have got where 
she was unless she was something not of flesh 
and blood, but of the stuff that dreams are made 
of. She was certainly very different from any 
girl he had ever seen before, at least in the 
western hemisphere. Nothing could be prettier 
than the shape of her round white neck, of her 
little head, or, in fact, of her every feature. Her 
skin was ivory-hued and smooth and flushed 
with the glow of health; her little nose was 
aquiline, her mouth like a cupid’s bow, her eye- 
brows black and somewhat heavy, and her dark 
eyes expressive, large, and grave. He had seen 
some such faces, though not as beautiful, in 
the fanciful creations of the painter’s brush, and 
the presence here in the forests of the Adiron- 
dacks, of a creature so fantastic, so witch-like, 
was an anomaly which puzzled him to the last 
degree. 

She was evidently filled with concern at the 
seriousness of the position of this very good- 
looking young man, who had dropped down, as 
it were, out of the clouds, almost at her very 
feet. It was her particular business to save him, 
and he co]ild see that she was revolving in her 
mind the means of doing so. She went some 
distance along the path which wound along the 
side of the fissure, turning her head now and 

12 


178 


NATE SAWYER 


then to see that Keene was following her direc- 
tions. She looked anxiously in the direction of 
the head of this smaller gorge, then she came 
slowly back, seemingly lost in reflection. 

“If I could only make Roberts hear,” she 
thought aloud; “but it is too far, and I dare 
not go after him and leave the man alone in 
such a perilous position.” 

Just then she caught sight of the trunk of a 
pine-tree which had been swept down the fissure 
by some great flood of former years, and which 
had lodged upon the ledge upon which she was 
standing. It seemed to be firmly bedded or 
wedged in the angle formed by the level of the 
ledge and the impending stratum of rock. It 
was perhaps twenty-five feet in length and nine 
inches in diameter at the larger end. As she 
caught sight of this her face lighted. She went 
to the smaller end of the stick and essayed to 
move it, but failed. Then she took her breech- 
loader, shoved the barrel between the timber 
and the rock and pried, with the effect of start- 
ing it away from its bed several inches. She 
continued this operation until the small end of 
the tree projected several feet over the abyss 
towards the spot where Keene sat huddled up 
against the cliff. The larger end still kept its 
place, firmly bedded between the rocks, and it 
was plain to be seen that if the butt of the 
trunk would hold its position, with a little more 
prying the small end would swing over until 
the tree formed a bridge over the chasm, 


A VOTARY OF DIANA 


179 


The young man watched her, as may well 
be thought, with the most fixed attention, and 
yet it did not seem to him as if he were himself 
personally interested in the matter. It was not 
his own safety which engrossed his mind so much 
as the picture which he was enjoying of a very 
pretty and graceful young woman performing, 
in a very skilful and vigorous way, a delicate 
and hazardous piece of engineering. 

She presently paused in her work and looked 
over at him, smiling as if to reassure him, and 
he noticed that the smile brought a dimple to 
one of her smooth, rose-tinted cheeks, the left 
one. 

“You see, there will be no trouble about it. 
It all depends upon you. You must be cool 
and not move until I tell you.” 

Saying this, she resumed her operations 
with such success that the smaller end of the 
pine stick now projected over to within two feet 
of Keene. It now began to sag, however, a 
good deal. He lay down on the rock, reached 
out, and, grasping the end of the tree, brought 
it around until it rested upon the rock where 
he lay. He moved it this way and that to see 
if it were likely to turn around under his weight ; 
then he arose, and suddenly, before she had any 
idea of his intention, he stepped lightly upon 
the fragile bridge, took three or four strides 
like those of a rope-walker, and was at her side. 

She slipped down and sat upon the trunk, 
her head sank upon her breast, she swayed once 


i8o NATE SAWYER 

or twice, and seemed as if about to faint. He 
caught her by the shoulders to prevent her from 
falling, but she was out of it in a moment, and 
rising, said: 

“I am ashamed of myself. I do not know 
what has come over me, but I think it was your 
rushing across the trunk in such a reckless and 
foolhardy manner.” 

“No; it is because you have done a great 
and brave thing. You have exposed yourself 
to grave danger and have performed almost 
a miracle to save the life of a perfect stranger. 
Your nerves and your faculties were at such a 
tension that, when it was all through, something 
had to give way with the reaction. I won’t try 
to thank you, because I couldn’t put it into 
words, and I know very well that a girl with a 
heart and an energy like yours can dispense with 
mere thanks, but you can rest assured that I 
realize fully what you have done.” 

“Well, we have talked enough about it,” 
replied the girl, in what now seemed to Keene 
a rather cold and conventional manner. “You 
are, I believe, the first person who ever attained 
the spot where we stand from yonder direction, 
and, if I have my way about it, you will be the 
last.” 

Saying this, she began to pry upon the fast 
end of the timber with such strength and will 
that in a moment or two it was dislodged from 
the place where it was wedged. One or two 
more applications of the gun-barrel brought it 


A VOTARY OF DIANA 


i8i 


to the edge of the cliff. It rolled over, trembled 
for an instant on the brink, and dashed headlong 
into the abyss. One end of it struck the bottom 
of the smaller chasm, then, rebounding, over it 
went and down, down into the great gorge, 
striking upon the rock, a hundred feet or more 
below, with a great crash, and floated away in 
the black waters of the flood. 

Keene instinctively imagined himself in the 
place of the piece of timber, and shuddered a 
little as he thought of the imminent danger from 
which he had escaped. The good fairy who had 
rescued him stood regarding her toy-like fire- 
arm, which had been very much damaged by 
the use to which it had been put, the barrel being 
bent and choked with earth and rock. There 
was something in her manner which made it 
appear as if she were secretly embarrassed; as 
if, now that she had rescued the youth who 
stood before her, she did not exactly know what 
to do with him. A cloud had gathered upon her 
brow which was evidently not caused by the 
condition of her weapon. 

“Sir,” she said, at length, “I did what I did 
because it had to be done; but, if I could have 
helped you in any other way than bringing you 
here, I would have done so.” 

He was surprised at the substance of what 
she said and at her manner of saying it. “If 
my fair preserver regrets what she has done,” he 
replied, with a touch of levity in his voice, 
“perhaps it would be better for me to release her 


1 82 NATE SAWYER 

of my presence by jumping after that stick down 
there?” 

“Now, please do not talk foolishly, but listen 
to me. As I said before, I have my reasons for 
regretting that you are here; in fact, it is a mis- 
fortune for me and perhaps for others. It is 
late, the night will be down in a short space of 
time, and you will not be able, before dark, to 
reach any habitation which you know about. 
I propose to offer you shelter for the night. 
Now that you are here, there is only one way 
of egress, and before you get away from this 
place you will necessarily be in possession of a 
secret which has always been zealously guarded. 
It is because you must know the secret anyway 
that I find it advisable to give you lodging for 
the night. I do not claim to have secured any 
rights upon you by what I have already done. 
What I am about to ask is a favor, and I ask 
it because I presuppose you to be an honorable 
and chivalrous gentleman.” 

“There is nothing in the world that you can 
ask of me in vain,” replied the young man, en- 
thusiastically. You do not know how glad I 
will be to have you ask me, to know that there 
is something in which I can be of service to you.” 

“Oh, it is a very simple thing,” said she, smil- 
ing faintly at his earnestness, and again showing 
the dimple in her left cheek. “It is this : you will 
promise me, on your honor as a man and by 
everything that you hold sacred in the world, 
that you will never divulge to any one living 


A VOTARY OF DIANA 


183 

what you see and hear from this time until you 
leave this place to-morrow morning; that you 
will never seek to return to the place where you 
lodge to-night; that you will ask no questions of 
any one you meet there ; that you will strive to 
forget the very fact of its existence. Do you 
promise?” 

Keene took her hand in his and, giving it a 
slight pressure, and looking her solemnly in the 
eyes, said, in a grave voice, “I am not in the 
habit of breaking my word, and I promise. I 
suppose, however, that you do not mean, in 
exacting this promise, that we are never to meet 
again.” 

“And why should we wish to meet again?” 
asked she with another recurrence of the dimple. 

“If I were to tell you all the reasons why we 
should meet again, it would take as many words 
as are contained in a three hundred page modern 
novel. There is every reason why we should 
meet again and no reason at all why we should 
not. I warn you now that I shall take every 
means possible to see you once more, that is to 
say every means which are compatible with the 
promise I have given you.” 

“And what are some of these reasons, if I 
may ask?” said she saucily. 

“I haven’t known you long enough to tell 
you some of the more cogent reasons why I want 
to continue your acquaintance, but, as I look at 
you the number of them keeps on increasing.” 

“You are certainly looking at me as if you 


184 


NATE SAWYER 


wished to gather a large stock of them,” said she 
quizzically. ‘‘However, you may meet me again 
in a very few days or hours; in fact, I think that 
such a meeting is altogether likely. If you do 
see me again, recollect that you are not to show 
that you have met me before and you are not 
to refer, in any manner whatever, to this place 
or to anything which may happen here.” 

“I will promise you that gladly,” said he, 
with becoming meekness. 

“I believe you,” answered the charming girl, 
simply,“and now come.” 

She passed before him, along the ledge which 
skirted the chasm. As they advanced, it began 
to grow wider and the walking became easier. 
After sixty or seventy feet, they turned an angle 
of the cliff, and he could now see that the fissure 
grew very much larger and wider as it went in- 
ward, and after a hundred feet or so from its 
mouth, instead of being eight or ten feet in 
width, it was forty or fifty, and constantly grow- 
ing more spacious. The ledge upon which they 
walked seemed rather cut out by the hand of 
man than fashioned by nature, and was now 
a constantly-widening path or plateau. It now 
occurred to Keene that, in the excitement and 
the emotions which succeeded his escape from the 
danger which threatened him, he had neglected 
to find out the name of his beautiful and singular 
benefactress, but that was easily explained, for 
she had burst upon his view in such a mysterious 
and supernatural manner that he had not put the 


A VOTARY OF DIANA 


iB5 


commonplace question to himself as to whether 
she had any name at all. Now, however, that 
he saw that she was a creature of flesh and blood, 
he felt that he must know her name; and after 
casting about within himself for the means of 
getting the desired information, he concluded 
finally to wait until the evening, or until they 
arrived at the place of shelter which she had 
promised him, before propounding the inquiry. 

All this time his guiding angel, for so she 
appeared to him, passed quickly along in front 
of him, her eyes cast down, and seemingly lost 
in the contemplation of some serious problem 
which required all her attention. They had 
ascended the chasm or fissure some two or three 
hundred feet above its opening into the Devil’s 
Gorge, when, all at once, it made another turn 
to the right, and, coming around the angle 
formed by the jutting limestone, a curious sight 
met his view. The gorge here widened to a 
cliff-encircled basin a hundred feet in diameter. 
On the left-hand side, some fifty feet below the 
summit of the cliffs, the ledge which they fol- 
lowed was widened out to a breadth of eighty 
feet or more, and the young man now saw that 
it had been formed by excavating the rock from 
the top downward. In other words, that it was 
the site of an old abandoned stone-quarry. 
Above this artificial plateau impended a wall of 
clean-cut limestone, jutting out at its summit, 
fully twenty-five feet beyond its base, and in the 
hollow so formed stood a curiously-shaped solid, 


i86 


NATE SAWYER 


and rather capacious cottage, built mostly of 
the large square boulders of limestone which 
had come from the quarry, and almost entirely 
hidden from view under the shelving rocks of 
the cliff. 

The summits of the precipice were fringed 
around with an almost impenetrable forest of 
pines and undergrowth. It would have been 
impossible for any persons exploring these 
mountain wilds to come very near the edge of 
the cliff; and even if they did so, it was a ques- 
tion whether they might even then perceive this 
mysterious dwelling, so cunningly was it hidden 
in the recesses of the crags, and behind the 
second growth of hemlock and pine which had 
grown up in front of it on the plateau itself. 
The roof of the house was covered with shingles 
which had become moss-covered and green with 
age; the stone walls were stained with time and 
weather, and the oaken doors and timbers were 
blackened with exposure. Taking it all in all, 
nothing could be imagined more picturesque 
and home-like than this forest- and crag-hidden 
cottage. 

Keene saw at once that this was the secret 
of which his nymph-like conductor had spoken, 
and a secret in truth it was, since the cottage 
could only be seen or approached from two 
directions, — either from the head of the ravine, 
or from the direction in which he himself had 
come. It was not likely that it would ever again 
be approached by a stranger in the latter way. 


A VOTARY OF DIANA 


187 


and he came to the conclusion that, if the other 
outlet or pass to this enchanted spot were as 
difficult as the one he had taken, the place was 
as secure from intrusion almost as if it had been 
in the moon. 

“There is the house where you are to stop,’^ 
said she, halting at some distance from the 
dwelling. “I will arrange it that some one will 
guide you on your way in the morning. Remem- 
ber your promise; and now, wait for me here 
until I prepare them for your coming.” 

Saying this, she left him and approached the 
curious edifice. When she was within a few feet 
of the entrance, there appeared in the porch a 
man of rough but honest exterior, clad in the 
garb of a guide or woodsman of the better class. 
He appeared to be fifty years of age, and had the 
air of a servant rather than of an equal. He at 
once perceived Keene standing at a distance, 
and his manner showed that he was immeasur- 
ably astonished at his presence upon the plateau. 

The young woman came up to him and talked 
to him some moments in a low voice. The man 
listened to her in a deferential, respectful man- 
ner, as he would have done if she had been his 
mistress; then she turned and beckoned to Keene, 
who came forward and joined them. 

As he did so he got a better view of the 
cottage. As was before mentioned, it was built 
solidly and for the most part of great square 
blocks taken from the quarry itself. These 
blocks were covered with moss, which made it 


i88 


NATE SAWYER 


seem that the house had been erected for some 
time. The building was built immediately 
against the cliff, and it looked as if the solid 
rock itself had been used for the back wall 
qf the house. It was about twenty feet in 
depth, and extended along the base of the cliff 
some sixty feet or more. The roof was of com- 
mon shingles, moss-grown like the mason-work, 
and was like one side of a common gable roof, 
slanting down and outward from the walls of 
the cliff. The house seemed to consist of one 
story and an attic, and the porch at which 
stood the lady and the woodsman was situated 
in the center of the fagade, flanked on either 
side by four large windows with very small 
panes. To conclude, the whole affair had an 
air of solidity and respectability which ill 
assorted with its singular and peculiar shape 
and its mysteriously isolated and hidden posi- 
tion. 

“Mr. Keene,” spoke up the young lady, as 
the young man joined them, “I have told 
Roberts of your unfortunate adventure, and ex- 
plained your presence here. He will look to 
your wants and see that you have supper and 
a comfortable lodging, of which, to judge from 
what you have gone through with, you must 
stand in considerable need. Roberts, take him 
into the oak chamber and do everything for his 
comfort.” 

“Any directions which you give, my young 
lady, shall be followed to the letter. Will you 


A VOTARY OF DIANA 189 

follow me, sir?” said the man, turning towards 
the youth. 

Keene prepared to follow him into the porch. 
He had been struck dumb with amazement at 
hearing himself addressed by name by the fair 
unknown, but it was only one of many surprises 
which he had experienced in the half hour just 
passed, and he was getting used to them. As he 
was about to pass within the door, he turned to 
where she had stood, in order to thank her again 
for all she had done, and behold! she had 
vanished from the spot where he had seen her a 
moment before, as completely as if she had 
melted into air. 

He stared and rubbed his eyes before he 
could convince himself that he saw aright. 

“Where is the lady?” he demanded of 
Roberts, who had paused and was awaiting him 
in the passage. “Does she not live here? and 
who in Heaven’s name is she?” 

“I think it will rain before morning,” 
answered Roberts, in a measured voice, as if he 
had not heard the question. 


CHAPTER IV 
Voices of the Night 


Roberts and the guest turned to the right, 
after entering the passage, and passed into a 
spacious and pleasant apartment, which was 
comfortably and, in some respects, richly fur- 
nished. It was finished massively and plainly 
in some sort of soft wood, the ceiling was of 
oiled pine, and a large, handsome, wrought- 
iron lamp hung from the center. The floor was 
covered with two or three thick Oriental rugs, 
upon which were placed several large, heavy, 
and comfortably-upholstered chairs and lounges 
of different shapes, all of which showed the 
marks of many years’ usage. The room con- 
tained two spacious hanging book-shelves, and 
the rest of the space upon the walls was taken 
up with several curious old engravings, a number 
of excellent landscapes, in oil and water colors, 
and a score or more of antique firearms and 
edged weapons. Keene examined the paintings 
and found that they all had for a subject the glen, 
the cottage and the surrounding forest, and that 
they gave evidence of a skill far beyond the 
ordinary. 

Roberts passed through and opened a door 
at the farther end of this apartment. 

‘‘Here,” said he, “is your chamber. You 

190 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


191 

will find everything necessary for your comfort. 
The diningroom opens on the other side of the 
passage. I will tell Lisbeth to get supper, and 
will let you know when it is ready.” 

Keene stepped forward and entered the 
chamber with Roberts. The latter went about the 
room, inspecting the different articles which 
were necessary for the comfort of his guest, to 
see if they were all in their places, and then 
prepared to retire. The young man, who had 
taken his seat upon a chair by the window in 
a state of complete bewilderment, was again on 
the point of questioning the man, notwithstand- 
ing the way in which his former question had 
been answered, when the admonition of the 
beautiful Amazon occurred to him and he held 
his peace. 

Roberts who had now finished his inspection, 
went out, pausing a moment on the threshold 
to say: 

“I think that you will find everything here 
that you need. If you do not, you will speak to 
me or Lisbeth about it, as the directions of the 
mistress were that everything should be done 
for your comfort.” 

Arthur thanked him for his courtesy and, 
as the door closed after him, proceeded to medi- 
tate upon the extraordinary adventure which 
had befallen him; the singular apparition of the 
lady herself at such an hour, in such a dress, 
in such a wild and inaccessible spot; her strange 
manner while he had been with her; the inex- 


192 


NATE SAWYER 


plicable way in which she had vanished as he 
was about to enter the house; the promise 
which he had been obliged to make before she 
had revealed the secret of the dwelling, and the 
mysterious situation and character of the house 
itself and of everything which it contained. The 
whole thing seemed so dream-like, so intangible, 
so out of all rhyme and reason, that he was upon 
the point, several times, of pinching himself to 
see whether, after all, he was not dreaming the 
whole thing. 

He now recalled to mind the tales of the old 
guide about the gray ghost of the gorge, and the 
strange lights which had been flickering to and 
fro along the face of the cliff. The gray ghost 
was undoubtedly the little huntress. Passers 
by had, now and then, caught glimpses of her 
as she stood upon the ledge at the mouth of 
the smaller ravine. It must also have been she 
who had been responsible for the will-o’-the- 
wisp lights which had so astonished Nate 
Sawyer. 

This girl had affected him in a strange man- 
ner. She had produced a profound impression 
upon him. He was fascinated and obsessed by her 
image, which remained vivid and lifelike be- 
fore his mental vision. He smiled as he thought 
of his growing interest in her and he asked 
himself if he could already be falling in love 
with this charming nymph of the woodland. 

The chamber in which he found himself 
was very prettily and tastefully arranged, and 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


193 


seemed rather to have been decorated and 
furnished for a feminine than a masculine 
occupant. The pictures upon the walls, the 
delicate and fanciful character of the furniture 
and of the ornaments, together with the presence 
of a score of trifling feminine knick-knacks, and 
of two or three daintily-bound romantic books, 
bespoke the former presence there of some re- 
fined and educated woman, and he imagined 
that it might be the one particular chamber of 
the unknown huntress who had brought him 
thither. 

His toilet was soon made, and, while wait- 
ing the summons to supper, he strolled into the 
adjoining room and examined the different ob- 
jects which it contained, which he had not 
noticed on passing through it before. 

As he had been a great reader and was a 
natural lover of books, his first attention was 
given to the book-shelves. They did not contain 
many volumes, perhaps a hundred all told, but 
he was surprised at their unexceptional excel- 
lence, at their wide variety, and at the learning 
and taste which their possession implied in 
their owner; and he said to himself that it was 
not the library of a young and romantic girl, 
neither could it appertain to the man Roberts, 
who, though he had spoken in a sensible and 
grammatical manner, nevertheless had shown, 
in their talk of a few minutes, a certain sim- 
plicity and rusticity of speech which the owner 
of these well-worn books would not have had. 
13 


194 


NATE SAWYER 


There were books in several languages: 
Boccaccio and Tasso, Goethe and Heine, 
Moliere and Le Sage, and Rabelais, Cervantes, 
and Calderon, side by side with Shakespeare 
and Burton, with John Bunyan, Butler, and 
Dean Swift. The owner of the books was 
evidently fond of romance, as well as of humor 
and of satire, which fact was shown by the pres- 
ence of the works of several of the great English 
poets, and of two or three of the greatest of 
English novelists, like Scott and Thackeray. 

There is no index to a person’s character and 
life like his books taken altogether. Here was 
evidently a collection of a hundred of the best 
books in the world, according to the owner’s 
idea. It was no indiscriminate collection, 
brought together by chance, but showed that it 
had been chosen seriously by one individual, as 
one would choose out a few friends for constant 
companionship. 

Thus the young man mused, and he began 
to create out of his own fancy, as he glanced 
from volume to volume, the character and even 
the appearance of their owner, with his several 
traits, both bodily and mental, his situation in 
the world, and all his history, when suddenly 
he was interrupted in this pleasing occupation 
by the opening of the door which led into the 
passage, the same by which he had just entered 
with Roberts, and the appearance in it of a 
plain, tidy, oldish-looking woman, dressed 
primly in a dark gingham dress and wearing 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 195 

a spotless white apron and an equally spotless 
white cap, who courtesied and said: 

“Beg pardon, sir, but your supper is served, 
sir.” 

She preceded Arthur into the passageway 
and, opening the opposite door, showed him 
into the dining-room of the house. The young 
man followed her, full of expectation of at 
length meeting the mysterious young lady again. 
It is needless to say that his thoughts had been 
almost exclusively of her since he had entered 
the dwelling; but now, upon entering the room 
where the evening meal was spread, he was 
doomed to disappointment. The table was laid 
for two persons, it is true, but his companion, 
whoever it was to be, had not put in an ap- 
pearance. 

This apartment, like the other, showed signs 
of the cultivated taste of the owner. The table 
and the great sideboard and the old-fashioned 
chairs with their legs carved to represent the 
claws of birds or animals, were of polished 
mahogany, which had become almost black with 
age. There was a wealth of curiously antique 
silverware and fantastic, delicately-cut glass 
upon the table and the sideboard. The linen 
was like snow and of the finest texture, and there 
were several portraits, faded and blurred with 
time, hung around the room. 

Keene took the place which Lisbeth desig- 
nated as his, and while she came and went, or 
stood behind his chair during the course of the 


196 


NATE SAWYER 


meal, he would often look up, as some slight 
noise as of a footstep sounded in the adjacent 
part of the house, expecting that the fair un- 
known would enter and take the place opposite 
him, but he waited in vain, as the meal pro- 
gressed to its conclusion and she came not. 

He had ventured to address a few common- 
place remarks to the respectable and gray-haired 
woman who served him, upon the merits of the 
different viands with which he was served, and 
upon several other trivial topics, to all of which 
she had replied in a respectful, non-committal, 
and concise manner. The admonitions of the 
young girl were fresh in his mind, but the 
mystery of the vacant seat opposite his own was 
at length too much for him, and he ventured 
the observation: 

“From the cloth being laid for two I sup- 
posed I was to have company, but, from present 
appearances, it looks as if I should have to eat 
alone.” 

Lisbeth went about her business apparently 
unconcerned at this remark, and the young man 
continued : 

“Something must have occurred to detain 
her, is it not so?” 

“I do not know,” replied Lisbeth, calmly. 

“Had I not better wait until she comes?” 

“She is not coming to-night, sir.” 

“But you evidently expected her, since her 
place at the table has been prepared,” ventured 
Arthur. 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


197 


“It is not for her,” answered the aged 
waitress, who immediately began to busy herself 
with the china and silver, making rather more 
clatter than necessary, as though she would in- 
form him by that means that the conversation 
should end there. 

There was nothing for the young man to do 
but to keep silence. The question was upon his 
lips, “For whom is it, then, if not for her?” but 
he remembered his promise, and held his tongue. 

The supper itself was perfect. He had been 
used up by his long tramp and his exertions, 
and was frightfully hungry. The hardest fare 
would have been welcome to him, and here he 
was served with the choicest of eatables, which, 
though simple, were cooked as he would have 
found them at the Trois Freres Provengeaux, 
and served with exquisite neatness and taste. 
The trout were done to a turn and seasoned to 
a nicety; the salad was like an epicure’s dream, 
and the coffee had an aroma and taste which 
were perfection. There was only one thing 
which marred its enjoyment, and that was the 
absence of his nameless and beautiful hostess. 

It was dark when Keene finished his meal, 
and his watch showed him that it was some 
minutes past nine o’clock. Lisbeth preceded him 
into the library and lighted the lamp. She then 
lighted the candles in the silver candelabrum 
which stood upon a small cabinet in his chamber, 
and, returning into the passageway, closed the 
door after her, and the young man was left alone. 


198 


NATE SAWYER 


He now noticed, what he had before over- 
looked, a small miniature of a woman which 
hung in a corner of the library. He at once 
recognized the charming features of his little 
huntress. There were the same large, dark, ex- 
pressive eyes, the small shell-like ears, the 
mischievously-arched mouth, the rose tinted 
ivory color, and the dimple in the left cheek; 
but somehow the face, though every feature was 
there, seemed changed. The painter had not 
caught the true expression. It was she, and yet 
it was not she. 

The excitement and action of the day now 
began to have their full effect upon the young 
man, and he felt a degree of lassitude and 
drowsiness seldom before experienced; so, retir- 
ing into his room, he closed the door, and, after 
disrobing himself and extinguishing the tapers, 
he flung himself upon the couch, and with his 
last waking thoughts fixed upon the fair stranger 
who had been the means of bringing him to this 
curious though comfortable retreat, he fell into 
a deep slumber. 

It seemed to him that he could have slept 
not more than half an hour, when he was 
awakened by the closing of a door. He listened 
for a moment, and hearing nothing more, was 
dozing off again, when all at once came the 
sound of voices as though several persons were 
in conversation. He arose and, partially cloth- 
ing himself, opened the door into the library. 
All was quiet there, and the lamp, which was 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


199 


burning when he retired, had been extinguished. 
The voices now sounded clearer, and it was 
evident that the sound proceeded from the 
dining-room. He was filled with the idea that 
the young mistress of the house had returned, 
and, wishing to assure himself that such was the 
fact and resolving to retire immediately if the 
conversation were such that it would not be 
honorable to listen, he went to the door leading 
into the passage, tried it, and, to his surprise, 
found that it had been locked or bolted from the 
outside. It was certainly not done with the idea 
of making him a prisoner, as he could easily 
escape through the windows, one of which he 
now noticed was open. It could only have been 
done with the idea of keeping him from the 
passageway, and consequently from the other 
side of the house. Thus he reasoned, and it 
made the mystery which overshadowed the place 
seem deeper and more perplexing. 

He now caught the sounds of the voices, or 
rather the voice, for there was now but one, and 
that a musical, grave, baritone, more clearly. 
The person who owned it semed to be declaim- 
ing or reading aloud. Keene was a man of 
honor, but some hidden instinct told him that 
there was no harm in listening here, and his 
decision was right, for, after a few sentences of 
the reader, the young man perceived that he was 
reading that beautiful and charming story by 
Washington Irving: “The Student of Sala- 
manca.” He was now about half through the 


200 


NATE SAWYER 


narrative, and before the eavesdropper was 
aware of it, he was so interested in the doings 
of the student, the old alchemist, and his pretty 
daughter that he forgot everything else in his 
anxiety to hear the conclusion of the tale. He 
had read it more than once, but now there was 
something so magnetic in that deep, manly 
voice, as it expressed, in different cadences and 
inflections, the love, the happiness, the mad am- 
bition, the misfortunes, the sorrows, and the 
ultimate triumph of the three actors in the scene, 
that he now, for the first time, realized the un- 
equalled beauty of the narrative. 

At its conclusion there was a silence of 
several moments, as though the reader’s hearers 
were very much impressed, then several remarks 
were made about the story, and among the voices 
Arthur easily distinguished those of Roberts and 
Lisbeth, and also that of the reader, who pointed 
out, in well-chosen language, in a few sentences, 
the principal points of beauty and the moral of 
the tale. He listened anxiously for the voice 
of the young lady, but listened in vain. 

“Sir,” now spoke the old serving woman, 
“that story is surely very beautiful, but you 
promised to-night to read us something of your 
own writing. I would like for myself one of 
those simple, sad poems which tell about dear 
old forgotten things. There is one which you 
have read to us before. You called it ‘The 
Haunted House.’ Will you not read it again 
to us to-night?” 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


201 


After a pause, the reader, as if in answer 
to Lisbeth’s request, recited the following: 

“Rusty, worn, and stained by wind and weather. 

Still the same, through all the year’s swift change. 

Long has stood a homely, gabled dwelling. 

Silent, dark, and strange; 

Seeming lost, o’er shadowed and forgotten. 

In the busy street. 

But ’tis filled with bright and quaint illusions. 

Hallowed by sweet faces long since vanished. 

Haunted by the tread of unseen feet.” 

“He who lives there, careworn, gray, and lonely. 

He who loves its melancholy gloom. 

Sometimes hears the noise of children romping 
In some distant room — 

Merry ghosts of hide-and-seek, whose voices 
Lead him on, until 

Something tells him they are but the phantoms 
Of his childish hopes and creeds; — then swiftly 
They have fled, and all again is still.” 

“From his mid-day reveries he is startled 
By a fair ghost, from an old romance. 

With a merry laugh, a slender figure. 

And a roguish glance. 

Was it all a dream? but look! the curtain 
Trembles still, ah! well! 

’Tis not true, for her sweet voice is silent. 

She has long been sleeping in that palace 
Where no knight can come to break the spell.” 

“There’s a whispering in the embrasured casement. 

When the dusk comes and the night winds sigh; 

’Gainst the panes a little group seems shadowed, 

Ghosts of long gone by, 


202 


NATE SAWYER 


When the mother called her children round her, 

Held them close, and told 
Stories of the stars and of the fairies, — 

Magic stories, which, in childhood’s kingdom. 

Change the earth — the very hours — to gold.” 

“But at midnight, when the street is silent. 

And the firelight floats upon the walls. 

Quickly all is changed, a bright enchantment 
On the old house falls; 

Bringing back the beauty and affection 
Of the golden years. 

Bringing back the perfumes and the music. 

Bringing back the faces and the voices. 

Bringing back the smiles without the tears.” 

Now, after some moments, came the voice 
again, this time it said, “We will read the thirty- 
first Psalm.” 

There was a pause, broken by the rustling of 
leaves, and he commenced to read, this time 
with a more solemn and tender intonation. 
When he read the stanza commencing, “For 
thou art my rock and my fortress,” there was 
an exaltation, a fervor in the voice which showed 
how deeply the reader was in earnest; and when 
he read the stanza, “I will be glad and rejoice 
in thy mercy: for thou hast considered my 
trouble; thou hast known my soul in adversities,” 
there was a tremor in his expression and a 
hesitation as though the reader had been touched 
to the soul by the truth of this text, in its appli- 
cation to himself. 

After the psalm came the sound of foot- 
steps, and the opening and closing of doors. The 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


203 


different members of the household were 
evidently retiring for the night, and Keene, a 
“sadder and a wiser man,” composed himself 
to slumber. Try as he might, however, sleep 
would not come to him. The memory of the 
strange happenings of the afternoon and night 
kept racing through his brain and effectually 
dispelled his drowsiness. The moon was shin- 
ing, and through the open window, he could 
perceive the outlines of the rocks and trees of 
the glen almost as plainly as though it had been 
day. Moved by a sudden impulse, he arose, 
slipped into his clothing and, letting himself 
down out of the window, strolled slowly in the 
direction of the head of the ravine. After walk- 
ing a few hundred feet he sat down upon a 
convenient boulder and filled and lighted his 
pipe. For a quarter hour he sat thus, listening 
to the music of the leaping stream and to the 
rustling of the wind in the leaves, watching 
the phantom-like outlines of the great pine trees, 
and thinking of the girl whose charms and 
fascinations had, in such short time, made so 
great an impression upon him. 

At last, feeling a premonition of drowsiness, 
he arose and set out on his return to the house. 
When he had come within thirty or forty yards 
of it, he perceived a human figure come from 
the door and pass down the glen in the direc- 
tion of its mouth. Where the figure walked it 
was half moonlight and half shadow, so that he 
saw it indistinctly, yet it seemed to him to be 


204 


NATE SAWYER 


that of a woman. He was filled with curiosity 
to know why one of the women of the household 
should be taking a walk in such a dangerous 
locality at that time of night, and determined to 
follow in her footsteps. Besides, something 
might happen to her. It might be the girl and 
he was anxious for her safety. It occurred to 
him also that she might be a somnambulist. 
When he had gained a point, a hundred yards 
or so below the house, he had reduced the dis- 
tance between himself and the object of his pur- 
suit to fifty feet. However, she was now walking 
in the shadow of the overhanging cliffs, so that 
he could not be certain of her identity. She 
walked with the elastic tread of a young person, 
and he was almost certain that it was the girl. 
Something, however, held him from approach- 
ing and accosting her. When she had gained 
the ledge which overhung the greater gorge, 
being still in the shadow, she stood quiet for a 
moment. Then there came the flame of a match, 
and he saw her light a candle from it. She now 
began to make passes with the light, up and 
down and back and forth, and with arc-like 
sweeps to the left and to the right. She seemed 
to him to be wigwagging. Yet it was in no code 
that he was acquainted with. Through the 
mouth of the ravine he could perceive the forest 
upon the top of the further side of the Devil’s 
Gorge. From a point in the forest about op- 
posite him he now perceived an answering light. 
It was moving to the right and left and up and 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


205 


down, in imitation of the woman’s signal. 
Presently both lights disappeared, and Keene, 
supposing that this female person, whoever she 
was, would now be setting out upon her return 
to the house, went off twenty yards to one side 
of the path, and waited in the shadow of a great 
tree for her to pass. This she presently did. 
Strain his vision, however, as he might, he could 
not make out her face. Her figure seemed young 
and agile, and it might well be his enchantress, 
but he could not be sure. Presently too as he 
followed on, he lost her altogether. She was 
still some distance from the house when, sud- 
denly, she seemed to disappear. The woman 
was obscured for a second or two by a passing 
cloud and, in that instant, she was gone. He 
passed the spot where he had last seen her, but 
there was not a nook where she might have 
hidden. 

After standing and pondering the matter, 
to no avail, for full five minutes, he concluded 
that his wisest course was to seek his room and 
go to bed again. This he proceeded to do. 
After tossing restlessly for many minutes, he 
went off into a deep slumber which lasted until 
the morning. 

A rap upon his chamber-door awakened 
him, and the voice of Roberts informed him that 
it was seven o’clock and that breakfast would 
be ready in a few minutes. 

The young man arose and went to the win- 
dow. It had rained since his nocturnal expe- 


2o6 


NATE SAWYER 


dition, but now the sun shone brightly and the 
moisture-laden leaves of the forest glistened like 
silver. Now, for the first time, he fully saw the 
romantic and picturesque nature of the glen in 
which the house stood, and its inaccessible and 
hidden character. 

Hastily clothing himself, he repaired to the 
library, and was in time to take a long look at 
the small portrait of the pretty Amazon, before 
he was summoned to breakfast by Lisbeth. It 
was almost unnecessary to say that the morning 
meal was as fresh and appetizing and savory 
as that which had been given him the evening 
before. Lisbeth was the same staid, taciturn, 
respectful servant that she had been, and Keene 
felt the same temptation to ask questions, and 
succeeded not one whit better than before in 
eliciting information. 

A few minutes after breakfast, Roberts ap- 
peared in the passageway. 

“At this time,” said he, “my orders were to 
set out with you towards Glendale; so, if you 
are ready, sir, we will begin our walk.” 

“I am all ready,” answered Keene, “and my 
only regret is that I will not be able to see my 
host or hostess and tell him or her how grateful 
I am for the kind hospitality which I have 
received.” 

“I will convey your thanks to the owner of 
the house,” answered Roberts, dryly. 

Our hero saw that his ruse was unsuccessful, 
and that he was not even able to find out from 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


207 


this Sphinx whether his host was man or woman. 

As they passed out upon the porch the fresh 
breeze caused the door to slam heavily behind 
them. There was a small, thin, painted board, 
about eighteen inches long, resting upon the 
slight projection above the door. The concus- 
sion knocked this board from its support, and 
it fell at their feet. Roberts hastily seized and 
replaced it as before, but not before Arthur had 
caught a glimpse of two words painted upon its 
reverse side. The side which had been, and 
which now was, hidden against the wall of the 
house. These two words were “Hearts Rest.” 

The two men now set out from the house, 
taking a direction towards the head of the gorge, 
and opposite to that from which the lady and 
he had come the night before. While the dwell- 
ing was in sight, Keene several times looked 
back, with a lingering hope of catching one 
more glimpse of the strange maiden. It was in 
vain, however, and as Roberts showed by his 
manner that he noticed it, and that it annoyed 
him, Keene desisted and followed his guide 
silently. 

A hundred feet or so from the point whence 
they started there was a turn in the glen and 
the house passed out of sight. After walking 
about a furlong upon the same level, the ledge 
now narrowed to the width of twenty or thirty 
feet. For the last few minutes the sound of 
falling water had been borne to Arthur’s ears, 
and on making one more turn, around an angle 


208 NATE SAWYER 

of the cliff, a graceful feathery cascade burst 
into his view. 

The waterfall was situated at the head of 
the gorge. Where the stream tumbled into the 
glen there was a sheer precipitous descent of 
seventy feet or so, and he began to wonder how 
they were to get out of the ravine. 

On their way from the house he had noticed 
nothing but the same unbroken lines of cliff, 
and he now concluded that if there had been a 
means of ingress to the gorge, which the presence 
of the old stone-quarry made to seem possible, 
it had since been purposely destroyed. 

His guide, however, did not seem in any 
way troubled about the matter, but kept on in 
silence, and the young man followed him, filled 
all the while with a burning desire to question 
him upon a hundred points, but restrained by 
his promise from doing so. 

Keene now looked back along the route by 
which they had come and was surprised to see, 
some two hundred feet away, a man standing 
upon the edge of the cliff or ledge and fishing 
in the stream. At first he wondered that he had 
not seen this man when they passed the place 
where he stood; however, there were a number 
of large boulders and stunted cedars between the 
path and the creek and these had hidden the 
fisherman from view as they passed him. In 
the moment that Keene’s gaze was permitted to 
rest upon this individual he saw that he was a 
man of perhaps thirty years, a strongly built and 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


209 


gentlemanly youth, with a pointed beard and 
the well fitting garments of a sportsman. Arthur 
now came to the conclusion that he was the 
owner of the mysterious voice which he had 
heard in the night. 

At length Keene and Roberts arrived at a 
point immediately beside the fall, and great was 
his surprise to see Roberts pass out of sight be- 
hind it. He made a few steps after him, and 
found him standing perfectly dry upon a narrow 
platform immediately behind the cascade. From 
the platform, some steps, partly natural and 
partly rough-hewn out of the limestone, ascended 
to the right. Along the side of these steps ex- 
tended a chain fastened to iron rings which were 
let into the rock. 

“Take care to step solidly and squarely,” 
said the guide; “the stone is slippery with the 
spray.” 

Saying this, he began to ascend, and Arthur 
following him, found himself, after he had gone 
up about twenty feet, upon another platform, 
from which a stout wooden ladder, with a hand- 
railing reached up to the very top of the gorge, 
and in a moment more they were both standing 
upon the cliff. 

At the point where they had come out there 
was a quantity of undergrowth. Coming through 
this, the young man turned and looked down 
into the ravine, to inspect the way by which they 
had come, but was surprised to find that abso- 
lutely nothing of the steps or ladder could be 

14 


210 


NATE SAWYER 


seen. The most of it was, in fact, hidden behind 
the cascade, and such was the nature of the 
ground that the latter itself could not have been 
found, except by an improbable accident. He 
had noticed, besides, that this ladder had been 
constructed so that it might be easily removed 
from below. He wondered greatly that all these 
precautions should have been taken to render 
the secret of this mountain retreat so impreg- 
nable; and the mystery which hung over the 
matter became momentarily darker and more 
unfathomable to his perception. 

Roberts was impatient to be gone. “I must 
be back at nine o’clock,” said he, “and we have 
four good miles to go before we reach the point 
where I am to leave you.” 

With that he struck off with Arthur through 
the woods, and soon the sound of the cascade 
had died away and there was nothing to remind 
the young man of the mysterious gorge and its 
secret except the presence of his guide, who 
strode along ahead of him, deigning to look 
neither to the right nor left. 

After proceeding about half a mile, it seemed 
to him that Roberts had changed the direction- 
in which he was leading him, and that, instead 
of going west, they were diverging to the south. 
He asked him if this were not so, but the guide 
assured him that he was mistaken, that they were 
still proceeding in the same direction which they 
had taken when they left the glen, and that 
the seeming change in the direction was oc- 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


21 1 


casioned by the peculiarities of the country 
through which they had passed. 

He now entered into conversation with 
Roberts, and found him willing enough to talk, 
in a laconic way, about matters of general in- 
terest, but as soon as the conversation verged 
upon the subject of the house in the gorge, it 
was an entirely different matter, and he became 
as silent as the grave. 

The nearest approach which he made in his 
talk to the forbidden subject was in answer to a 
question in regard to the fishing in the neighbor- 
hood. The young man had asked if good sport 
might be had in the streams of the vicinity. 

“No,” said Roberts, “they are fished too 
much to give the fish a chance to grow.” 

“But the fish that I had the pleasure of eat- 
ing last night and this morning seemed to have 
had a chance enough to grow,” objected Keene, 
with a laugh. “They were very large brook 
trout, and yet they seemed to have the delicate 
taste which we find usually only in small ones. 
I would really like to know where those trout 
were caught.” 

“I don’t care if I tell you,” answered the 
guide. “Those fish came from the stream which 
runs past the house in the glen. Perhaps you 
noticed, as we ascended the gorge toward the 
fall, several quite large, deep black pools or 
tarns. They are full of trout which weigh all 
the way from half a pound to two pounds and 
a half. There are so many of them that, though 


21:2 


NATE SAWYER 


the stream is fished probably every day, all the 
year through, and enough taken out of it to 
supply the needs of a small family, there is no 
perceptible decrease in the number of trout. In 
fact, we have found it advisable, on one or two 
occasions, to drag the pools with a net in order 
to prevent them from becoming overcrowded.” 

“A fisherman’s paradise!” exclaimed Keene; 
“but how do you account for the delicate flavor 
of the large trout? just the taste that one gets 
in the little fellows.” 

“Because they’re a different kind from your 
ordinary trout. They’re darker-colored in the 
first place, perhaps because they swim in the 
darker water and never get the sunlight. The 
red spots on them are richer, and they are a 
finer shape. I never have seen this kind except 
in our glen. Even in this same stream, above 
the fall, you will not find one of them.” 

“That’s a very curious fact,” said Keene, 
“and it shows how animals, in time, will change 
and adapt themselves to their surroundings when 
transferred to localities different from those 
where they originated. But it seems to me that 
we have altered our direction and that now 
we are going towards the west.” 

“You are wrong, sir. One very easily loses 
his reckoning here in the forest; but to show 
how clearly you have kept yours, have the good- 
ness to tell me now what direction you would 
take to come at the glen which we left an hour 
ago?” 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


213 


^‘About there/’ said Arthur, indicating the 
point of the compass which he supposed the 
right one. 

‘‘You are all out, young man, all out. It lies 
away over there to the right. You are not used 
to these woods. It’s just like sailing the ocean, 
only harder. Millions and millions of these 
pine and hemlock trees, and all alike as so many 
peas. We have come in almost a direct line, and 
yet, I suppose, it seems to you altogether 
different.” 

The young man acknowledged that it did 
seem different, and at the same time he came to 
the inward conclusion that it not only seemed 
different, but that it was different. Though 
totally unused to traveling the forest, his eye 
was keen and his perceptions quick and correct, 
and he knew to a certainty that they had walked 
almost twice the distance necessary; or, in other 
words, that Roberts had led him here and there 
through the woods and had changed the direc- 
tion of their course as often as possible in order 
to make him completely lose his reckoning and 
render it impossible for him to retrace his steps 
to the mysterious spot where he had lodged the 
night before. 

He, however, kept his own counsel upon the 
subject. It did not matter after all, as he had 
promised the strange lady never to return to the 
spot, and he was so punctilious in such matters 
that he did not even think of the possibility of 
breaking his promise. 


214 


NATE SAWYER 


After they had proceeded a mile or two 
farther, his guide paused, and turning to the 
young man, said, “Here I leave you. You see 
yonder stream off to the left. Follow that for 
about a mile, and you will come to an opening 
in the forest on the farther edge of the highlands 
upon which we stand now, and from that point 
you will have a view down over the country for 
a long way. The cluster of houses which you 
will see, a mile or two down the mountain, 
directly ahead of you, is Glendale; and so, good- 
day, sir!” 

“Good-by!” said Keene, extending his hand, 
“many thanks for the trouble which you have 
taken. Remember me to your people and tell 
them that I am sincerely grateful for their kind- 
ness.” 

“I will do so,” answered the guide, gravely. 
“And I will also say,” added he, looking Arthur 
steadily in the eye, “that you will remember 
your promise.” 

“Tell them that, too,” said the young man, 
with fervor. 

The two men grasped each other by the hand, 
and Roberts turned and in a moment was lost 
to view in the forest. 

The young man in due time came to the 
village of Glendale, and made it his first busi- 
ness to get a lodging in the hotel and to have 
his baggage, which he found awaiting him at 
the railway station, removed to his apartments. 

The inn or tavern, which was the only one 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


215 


in the village, was a comfortable and homelike 
abode. It was kept by an old man named 
Wilkinson, who had formerly been a guide and 
trapper of great repute. Many hunters and 
fishermen stopped there on their way to and 
from the forest. It was also a resting-place for 
touring parties of automobilists. The building 
was a weather-beaten one, but the rooms were 
large and filled with homelike and old-fashioned 
furniture and the table was excellent when one 
considered the locality. Keene installed himself 
in the two best rooms which the inn afforded and, 
after spending an unconscionable time in bath- 
ing, changing his vestments and arranging his 
lares and penates, he made a most satisfactory 
meal and afterward spent an hour with his 
favorite pipe on the roomy porch which faced 
the river. For fifteen miles or so from Glendale 
to the north the river was navigable for small 
craft, and now and then a row boat or a motor 
boat passed up and down the stream before him. 
He gazed at the scene, however, in an absent- 
minded manner, for he was thinking all the time 
of a certain quaintly clad nymph of the forest 
and all else seemed trivial and of no account. 

From where he sat, he had a good view of the 
Marwood mansion. The house itself was a 
great, solid, old-fashioned structure of gray 
limestone, built squarely, with a large pillared 
portico in the center of the fagade. It was sur- 
rounded with gigantic shade-trees of oak and 
elm, flanked by a number of out-buildings of 


2i6 


NATE SAWYER 


every description and size, from the enormous 
barn or granary to the diminutive smoke-house; 
and to the right of the house extended a large 
garden with many graveled walks and rustic 
seats, parterres of flowers, and a splashing 
fountain, — the whole surrounded with a high 
wire trellis, rendered almost impervious to the 

by grape-vines and pear-trees, trained flat- 
wise against the wires. 

The other houses of the village of Glendale 
were huddled together at some distance from 
the mansion, as if they were shy about approach- 
ing too nearly their more pretentious neighbor. 
They were the abodes of the laborers of the 
vicinity, and resembled the lowly dwellings of 
vassals clustered about the walls of some castle 
of feudal times. There were a dozen of these 
cottages all told, and the village, in addition, 
was possessed of a saw-mill, the hostelry, and 
one store, where almost anything might be pur- 
chased, from a yard of ribbon to a mowing- 
machine. 

At about four o’clock in the afternoon the 
young man strolled up the village street and, 
passing out of the village, came to the home- 
stead of the Marwoods and entered the mansion. 
He was shown, by a comely, neatly-dressed maid- 
servant, into a large, old-fashioned, quaintly 
furnished room overlooking the garden and 
river. 

Stephen Marwood was absent, she informed 
him, and would not return for two weeks. Miss 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT 217 

Marwood was at home, as was also Miss 
Cynthia Marwood. 

He asked to see Miss Marwood, gave the 
maid his card and bade her announce him. She 
left the room, and in a moment or so returned, 
said that Miss Marwood would be down in an 
instant, and retired again. 

Arthur glanced around the room. The por- 
traits of several of the ancestors of the Marwoods 
were hung upon the walls. Some of them were 
dingy and indistinct with age, and one Puritanic- 
looking gray-beard, with a ruff, laced band, 
and skull-cap, seemed as though he might have 
come over on the Mayflower. 

In a few moments there was a light step upon 
the stair, a rustling in the hallway, and a 
decidedly handsome girl stood before him. 


CHAPTER V 

But He Saw The Other One First 


The girl was somewhat above the medium 
height; she had a singularly graceful figure and 
her face was quaintly beautiful in feature and 
expression. Her eyes were of an unfathomable 
gray and her luxuriant hair was of a light 
brown, touched here and there, as the light 
struck it, with a glint of reddish gold. An artist, 
once having seen her would dream about her. 
He had seen women of that style of beauty in 
Paris and in Brussels. 

She shook hands with him and greeted him 
warmly. He addressed her as Miss Marwood, 
but she at once corrected him: 

“I am not Miss Marwood. I am Cynthia 
Marwood, her cousin. Valeska will be down 
presently. She sent me ahead that you might 
not have so long a wait.” 

She spoke with a musical voice and with a 
slowness which, though it had its charm, was 
somewhat disconcerting. She then motioned 
him to a chair and, crossing the room, with the 
ease and manner of a princess, seated herself 
and lay back against the cushions in a posture 
of amiable repose and self possession. Her in- 
scrutable gray eyes gazed at him unchangeably, 
yet in an impersonal way. She had an indolent, 
218 


HE SAW OTHER ONE FIRST 219 

charming air of allowing herself to be admired, 
as if this was a long established custom which 
she gracefully permitted. 

She was in no haste to speak and her words 
were few, yet her remarks were clear and com- 
prehensive and showed intelligence and edu- 
cation. 

“You will be agreeably surprised when you 
see Valeska,” said Cynthia presently, “she is a 
wonderfully handsome girl and of a style which 
one very rarely finds.” 

“This region,” said Keene, “seems to abound 
in pretty girls. Last evening I met one who was 
ravishingly beautiful, and your cousin will make 
three.” 

A faint smile passed over the girl’s face. 

“One and one do not make three.” 

“I agree with you,” he answered. 

Keene could not but be impressed with her 
beauty, and with the strange mystery of her 
speech and manner. At the same time he did 
not waver, for an instant, in his allegiance to the 
girl whom he had met in the forest. There 
now sounded other footsteps and swishing of 
woman’s skirts upon the stairs and, looking 
up, Arthur perceived, standing in the doorway, 
that being who had filled his waking and 
sleeping thoughts for the last twenty-four hours. 
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. No, 
he could not be mistaken. The lady who stood 
before him, faultlessly and daintily frocked, 
a single red rose in the coils of her dark. 


220 NATE SAWYER 

glossy hair, was none other than the little 
huntress. 

She stood just outside of the doorway, out 
of Cynthia’s range of vision, and placed her 
finger upon her lips, as if she might warn Keene 
to say nothing about their previous meeting; 
then she came quickly into the room and was 
introduced by her cousin to the young man, 
with an expression upon her face and manner 
which would have done credit to an actress. 

So the mysterious and charming being whom 
he had met under such strange circumstances 
was Valeska Marwood, the daughter of 
Stephen Marwood, a man of wealth and im- 
portance. He had come to Glendale for the 
reason that he had some special business with 
Mr. Marwood, and this business was likely to 
be of an unpleasant nature. In a moment, he 
decided that these affairs were of a secondary 
value and that they might wait indefinitely, in 
fact, he might conclude to drop the matter al- 
together. The fact that she was the daughter 
of Stephen Marwood, an heiress and a young 
lady of position, made it seem more strange to 
him that she should be connected with the 
hidden house in the glen and its singular 
occupants. The puzzle became more intricate 
and fascinating. Then he thought of the athletic 
and well dressed young man whom he had seen 
fishing as he left the gorge, the owner of the 
mysterious voice, the man who had written and 
recited the poem of the Haunted House, and the 


HE SAW OTHER ONE FIRST 221 


artist who had created those gems of landscape. 
He was a poet and a painter of no inferior order 
and he was a man who was good to look at. 
Supposing that he was in love with Valeska, 
and how could it be otherwise, what chance had 
he against such competition? 

Valeska was standing back of Cynthia’s chair 
and was leaning over with her round, white 
arms upon the back of it. There could be no 
better opportunity for comparing the charms of 
the two girls, and Arthur made instant and full 
use of it. There is no pleasanter occupation for 
the average man than to compare at short range 
the attractions of two pretty girls. 

Valeska’s white, shapely hand stole down 
upon Cynthia’s cheek and neck and Cynthia 
gazed up for a moment into her cousin’s face, 
with a caressing look. Evidently there was a 
real and true affection between the two. How 
rare a thing it is to find two beautiful women 
who are truly fond of each other. The state- 
ment of such a thing is almost a contradiction 
in terms. On the other hand, there are any 
number of pairs of handsome and plain girls 
who love each other devotedly. What is the 
reason for this? 

The young man now turned the conversation 
to the subject of the Marwood family and, 
asking the names of the different worthies whose 
dingy portraits hung upon the walls, was by 
Valeska put in possession of the history of each 
one of them. 


222 


NATE SAWYER 


The most ancient one of all, the one with 
the rufif and skull-cap, was Nathaniel Marwood, 
a man who was born about the year 1630, and 
who settled at Rowley, a village in the vicinity 
of Salem, in the State of Massachusetts. He was 
a lawyer and in maturer years had become a 
judge, and had presided at some of the trials of 
the witches who were condemned to death and 
executed for their deeds. 

“Sometimes,” said Valeska, “I wish that old 
William Marwood had been hanged himself, 
as he certainly deserved it. Only then Cynthia 
and I would not be here now, and I certainly 
do not wish that, as I think the world is very 
beautiful, except for some few things which do 
not go just right, and I enjoy it all immensely, 
and then there’s Cynthia and some others. No, 
I am glad, after all, that he was not hanged, 
though he certainly looks as if he should have 
been.” 

“It will surprise you to hear,” said Arthur, 
“that I have a personal quarrel with that same 
William Marwood.” 

“How can that be?” asked Cynthia. 

“It is the truth. I have had a particular 
spite against him since I have heard that he 
tried and condemned the witches. My great- 
great-great-grandmother on my father’s side was 
a witch.” 

“How delightful,” exclaimed Valeska, “and 
how interesting it would be, if you had been able 
to keep some of the tools of her trade in the 


HE SAW OTHER ONE FIRST 223 

family, such as her broomstick, or one of her 
rag dolls in which she used to stick pins when 
she wanted to persecute her enemies.” 

“Unfortunately, Miss Valeska, these things 
have been lost with the lapse of time. This 
witch, my ancestress, was arrested, when a girl 
of eighteen years, at Salem, on the charge of 
witchcraft. She was tried probably by Judge 
Marwood, but it was toward the last of that 
singular persecution, when public sentiment 
began to change; and, finally, together with a 
hundred or more suspects, she was released. I 
have heard though that the Judge was for 
hanging them all. Now two hundred years 
afterwards, things have very materially changed. 
The Judge’s great-great-great-granddaughters 
are the witches. You, I am sure, have bewitched 
the total male population within twenty miles 
of this place, and I am of a mind to constitute 
myself your judge, and to hale you into court.” 

It was now arranged, that is to say, it was 
arranged by Cynthia and Valeska, who did not 
allow Keene to have a word in the matter, that 
he was to lunch and dine with them, as long as 
he remained in the village. He made, however, 
no very strenuous objections to the arrangement. 

The talk drifted very soon after that to the 
subject of motor cars and motor boats. They 
even got upon the topic of aeroplanes. Valeska 
was an authority upon motors of all descriptions 
and Cynthia, though she said very little about 
the matter, showed by her occasional remarks, 


224 


NATE SAWYER 


which were always clear and always made in 
that slow impersonal way of hers, that she un- 
derstood the subject quite thoroughly, if she was 
not such an enthusiast as Valeska. She gave 
Keene the impression that, being very amiable 
and willing to please, she would graciously be- 
stow her company upon them, should he and 
Valeska desire her to go motoring or sailing. 
Her smile came quickly and sweetly in response 
to each speaker, and was the more marked as 
her lips almost at once recovered their serious 
expression. 

Arthur now learned from the girls that they 
were possessed of a motor boat, named the 
^‘Lorelei,” thirty-five feet in length and of a 
speed of fifteen miles, which they kept in a boat 
house upon the banks of the river; and that they 
had three cars in their garage, a touring car, 
a limousine and a runabout. 

“Unfortunately,” said Valeska, “our chauf- 
feur is not at present available. In fact, it is 
very seldom that he is. He went yesterday to 
the city to get some kind of a gear or pinion for 
the limousine. That is to say, he gave that as 
a reason for going. However, he intended to 
go, so I suppose that reason was as good as 
another. We do not employ him. He employs 
us. Sometimes also, if we are very, very good, 
he is kind enough to let us take out a car and 
even to drive us. If this autocrat were here and 
in a gracious mood, it would be pleasant to take 
a run of an hour or two before dinner.” 


HE SAW OTHER ONE FIRST 225 

‘^Let me be your chauffeur,” exclaimed 
Keene. “I will be no haughty minion, but will 
perform the duties of my office with humble 
and painstaking alacrity.” 

“But the touring car is also out of order,” 
answered Valeska, “and we can’t go in the 
runabout, as it seats only two.” 

Arthur, as he looked at Valeska, saw no 
reason why this last should be an objection. He 
said, however: 

“Lead me to the touring car. I am a me- 
chanic myself, in my poor way, and I long to 
have a tussle with it.” 

“I will stay here and await the outcome of 
it,” said Cynthia. 

“No, you come with us, that’s a dear,” said 
Valeska. “I always do things when you are 
with me. Your company alone is better than the ^ 
help of many people. You bring good luck. 

If you do not come, I know we shall never fix 
the car.” 

She put her arm around Cynthia’s waist and 
laughingly pulled her toward the door. 

It seemed to Arthur as if Valeska were 
fearful lest she should be alone with him, and, 
with this thought and others equally annoying, 
he followed the girls out of the house and 
through the grounds to the garage. They passed 
through a beautiful and spacious flower garden, 
in the midst of which was a fountain and a 
summer house or pavilion. Beyond lay an 
immense vegetable garden and in front of the 
15 


226 


NATE SAWYER 


grounds was the road and beyond that the dark 
winding river, with its background of cultivated 
fields and forests stretching away to the right 
and the left, until they seemed blue with the 
distance. 

When they came into the garage, Keene 
examined the car thoroughly then, while the 
girls stood near at hand, Valeska giving him 
a word of advice and Cynthia gazing at him with 
that absent-minded look in her gray eyes, he 
divested himself of his coat, rolled up his 
sleeves and, taking with him a huge wrench 
and other formidable weapons, crawled under 
the chassis and commenced operations. 

For a quarter of an hour they saw nothing 
of him save his feet and heard nothing from 
him but a series of growls and smothered ex- 
clamations, the import of which they knew not, 
which was fortunate. Presently, however, he 
emerged and stood upright with a long-drawn 
sigh of relief. His arms and face were daubed 
with black smudges. Nevertheless, with his 
sinewy straightness and the whiteness of his 
cuticle he was infinitely good to look at. He 
brandished the wrench over his head, in signal 
of victory. 

“In hoc signo vinces,” said Valeska. 

“Are you certain that you have fixed it?” 
asked Cynthia. “William, the despot, our 
chauffeur, said that it would take a day to put 
it in order.” 

“The engine will start at the drop of the 


HE SAW OTHER ONE FIRST 217 

hat,” answered Keene, who proceeded to wash 
himself savagely at the garage sink. Valeska 
now stepped lightly into the driver’s seat and 
took the steering wheel. 

“I am going to drive the car,” she announced. 

Keene helped Cynthia into the tonneau and 
then, cranking the engine, prepared to get into 
the front seat with Valeska. 

“You are to sit in the tonneau with Cynthia,” 
said Valeska imperiously. 

Arthur, wondering at the girl’s evident deter- 
mination to avoid his too close proximity, con- 
cealed his injured feelings and took the place 
designated. Foolish young man. How many 
countless thousands of male beings would have 
envied him the privilege of sitting beside that 
paragon of loveliness. 

Valeska could certainly drive. The car 
rolled smoothly down the cinder path of the 
grounds into the road. She made the turns with 
perfect skill. In a moment, they were passing 
through the single street of the village on second 
speed. By a slight swerve to one side she saved 
a dog’s life, by another she avoided a tipsy 
woodsman who was crossing the street in front 
of the Inn, and at the same time, a damage suit. 
When they were well out of the village and 
upon the state road, which was in smooth and 
elegant condition, she slipped in the third-speed 
gear. The car which was of forty-horse power, 
gave a great bound forward and then settled to 
its work with a smooth and rhythmical purr of 


228 


NATE SAWYER 


the engines which had a most delightful sound. 
Keene leaned forward and looked at the speed- 
ometer. It registered a little short of thirty 
miles an hour. 

“What is the speed limit in these parts?” 
he asked of Cynthia. 

“I am not sure, but I think it is ten miles.” 

“Ten miles and a twenty-dollar bill,” 
cried Valeska, turning toward them and show- 
ing for an instant that row of small, white, 
even teeth and the distracting dimple in her 
cheek. 

“Her driving is like the driving of Jehu the 
son of Nimshi,” said Arthur to Cynthia. 

“Yes, but you forget that if Jehu had had a 
forty-horse power motor, he would have made 
a much better record.” 

“Yes, and those were the good old days when 
they had no speed limit laws. Jehu was never 
fined for over-speeding.” 

It was one of those rare days in June which 
the poet speaks of. The air blowing in their 
faces, was crisp, cool and delicious, the scenery 
through which they passed was of swiftly chang- 
ing and wild beauty. They were traveling along 
a broad valley and, on either hand, far away, 
arose the mountainous hills clothed in the dark, 
mysterious green of the everlasting forest. Now 
and then the winding river came into view or 
the blue expanse of a lake glimmered for a 
moment through the trees. Added to this all 
was the thrill, the exhilaration which comes 


HE SAW OTHER ONE FIRST 229 

from the unutterably swift and delightful flight 
of the car. 

“I always enjoy it so much; the pleasure of 
it is so far beyond words, that I forget to talk. 
I can do nothing but sit still and drink it in,” 
said Cynthia. 

“It is certainly very beautiful,” said Arthur 
inanely. It must be remembered, however, that 
he was looking at Valeska’s shapely back and at 
her round ivory neck and the wind-blown 
wisps and tendrils of brown hair which caressed 
it. Perhaps that is what he meant. 

Presently another car, containing a single 
occupant, came swiftly toward and passed them. 
Keene caught but a momentary glimpse of the 
driver of the car, but, in that moment, he 
thought he recognized in him the man of the 
mysterious cottage in the glen. The passing 
was so swift that he could not see if there was 
a greeting between this personage and the 
girls. Cynthia still preserved her air of 
amiable indifference, but Valeska’s cheek, what 
he could see of it, seemed to have taken on a 
rosy color which had all the appearance of a 
blush. 

“Damn,” said Keene to himself, “the man 
has a car, too.” 

When they had been running for perhaps an 
hour, Keene perceived a quarter mile ahead a 
man standing in the middle of the road and 
waving a red flag. He looked like a farmer and 
wore a straw hat and a tuft of reddish beard 


230 NATE SAWYER 

which sprouted up out of his collar like a 
fountain. 

“That man,” said Valeska, half turning, “is 
the Justice of the Peace of the town of Wil- 
mount. We are now upon the borders of his 
town and he thinks that he is going to hold us 
up and fine us. He maintains a regular trap for 
autoists and is making a comfortable competence 
from it. However, he only thinks he is going 
to stop us.” 

The error in the Justice’s thoughts was 
quickly shown, as the car darted past him with- 
out slowing up, and he only escaped the wheels 
by making a leap to one side which was astonish- 
ing in one of his years. 

“What will he do now?” asked Arthur de- 
lightedly. 

“He will run to his house which stands near 
by and telephone to his constable who stands 
on the road two miles away at the other end of 
the town. The constable will then stretch a rope 
across the road, from fence to fence, so as to 
effectually bar the way. Meanwhile, the Justice 
will hitch up a horse and drive down to collect 
the fine.” 

“But is there no other road intersecting this, 
by which we can escape the constable?” 

“None whatever. This road is a veritable cul 
de sac. However, I think we can manage it. In 
fact, I have done so once already.” 

When they had gone about a mile further, 
they came to a patch of woods alongside of the 


HE SAW OTHER ONE FIRST 231 

road and, there being no fence, Valeska turned 
the car and drove it in among the trees, using 
for this purpose an old, disused wagon track. 
When the engines were stopped and the car 
came to a stand, it was completely hidden from 
the road, but at the same time, from their hiding- 
place behind the leaves they could easily watch 
any vehicle, should one pass by. 

In ten minutes, surely enough, they heard 
the clatter of hoofs, and quickly thereafter they 
saw the Justice driving furiously by in an 
ancient buggy. 

After waiting five minutes more, Valeska 
asked Keene to crank the engine. She then 
wheeled the car back upon the road and drove 
it swiftly away in the direction whence they had 
come. 

“But,” said Arthur, “he has undoubtedly 
taken your number, and will hale you to court 
upon the morrow’s day.” 

“Not so,” answered the girl. “You see this 
wire which comes up through the bottom of the 
car and this ring at the end of the wire just 
under the steering wheel. Well, that wire runs 
back under the body and is fastened to the num- 
ber sign through a small hole at the bottom of 
it. When I pull on the ring it brings the sign 
up to a horizontal position, so that he couldn’t 
see the number of the car unless he were lying 
on his back and the car ran over him. You saw 
that this did not happen. Consequently, he 
doesn’t know our number,” 


232 NATE SAWYER 

Keene laughed heartily. 

“I saw that wire when I was fixing the car 
and wondered what new contraption it was. 
And have they never succeeded in collecting a 
fine from you for speeding?” 

‘‘Sometimes,” answered she. 

“Many times,” said Cynthia to Keene in a 
low voice. 


CHAPTER VI 
The Ghost Again 

When they had arrived at the Marwood 
Mansion, the fair driver of the car suggested 
that they should continue their run to the north. 

“It is still early,” said she, “the roads in this 
direction are good for eight or ten miles further 
on, and there are several choice bits of land- 
scape which I would like tp have you see.” 

As Arthur managed to include the profile 
of the girl in each glimpse which he took of the 
passing scenery, he felt well content to let the 
matter go on indefinitely and so expressed 
himself. 

When they had got six or seven miles to the 
north of Glendale, where the road wound 
through the edge of the forest, they came to a 
house which stood by the wayside, and which 
nestled beneath a fir-clad hill, arising abruptly 
back of it. It was a bungalow of two stories, 
built of pine logs, with the bark on, and the 
lower story was completely circled with a 
rustic veranda. It was a large house and, 
though of rough materials, was built with great 
care and disregard of expense; in addition to 
this, it was surrounded by a well kept lawn, in 
which, here and there were flower beds and 
arbors. Here were evidences of recent care, but 

233 


234 


NATE SAWYER 


the bungalow itself, strangely enough, seemed 
unoccupied; for every window, without ex- 
ception, was tightly closed with a pair of solid, 
panelled, green shutters. 

The girl at the wheel stopped the car in 
front of the gate of the house. 

“I want some tea,” said she in a plaintive 
voice. 

“But Mr. Hare is away from home,” ob- 
jected the other girl. 

“So much the better. I will have Nancy 
make it for us and serve it in the arbor back of 
the house. Nancy is the housekeeper and maid 
of all work,” added she, to Keene. 

“It doesn’t look to me,” said Cynthia slowly, 
“as if anybody were at home.” 

“I don’t care. We want some tea, and tea 
we will have, if I have to burglarize the 
kitchen door.” 

Saying this, the girl sprang lightly from the 
car and walked toward the rear of the house, 
followed by the others. 

Arthur wondered who this Mr. Keene was. 
He was certainly a most fortunate person, since 
these two young ladies were upon such friendly 
terms with him that they proposed to break into 
his house during his absence. He wished that 
he himself had a house and that they would 
burglarize it, only he would wish to be there 
at the time. 

After Valeska had rapped upon the kitchen 
door repeatedly with her small, firrn little fisf 


THE GHOST AGAIN 


235 


and Keene himself had pounded upon it, until 
he was afraid that he would break the panel, 
and all to no effect, the three of them sat down 
upon a rustic bench and drank some ice cold 
water from a tiny spring which trickled from 
the hillside; using for the purpose, a tin dipper 
which was fastened to the rock with a chain. 

“If I were a man,” said Valeska,. reflectively, 
“I could get into the house.” 

“If you were a man,” answered Arthur, “with 
a man’s sense of righteousness, you wouldn’t 
think of breaking into another man’s house.” 

“If I were a man,” continued she, unheed- 
ing, “I would climb that post to the roof of the 
porch; then I would take a stick and poke it 
through that hole, where the shutter is broken 
at the lower corner, and work the catch so that 
I could open the shutter; then I would raise the 
sash, get into the room and come down the stair 
and unbolt the kitchen door. There is a spirit 
lamp in the cupboard and I could have our tea 
ready in no time at all. If I were a man, and 
two unfortunate damsels were perishing for the 
want of the cup which cheers but does not in- 
toxicate, I would enter that house, bolts and 
bars to the contrary notwithstanding.” 

“Love laughs at locksmiths,” said Keene, 
giving her a significant glance, “and with that 
principle in view, I am resolved to make the 
attempt.” 

He arose, and providing himself with a 
stout twig of convenient length, prepared to 


NATE SAWYER 


236 

climb to the roof of the veranda, but was 
stopped by Valeska. 

“Wait a moment,” said she. “It is only fair 
to tell you, before you enter the dark and un- 
known passages of that gloomy mansion, that 
you run a very fair risk of meeting up with 
a ghost. According to common report and the 
unchallenged testimony of a cloud of witnesses, 
the place has been haunted for the last dozen 
years.” 

“That settles it,” said Arthur. “That is the 
one incentive needful. Nothing now could keep 
me from entering. But what is the ghost like? 
I should have a description of the spook, so that 
I will be able to identify him, should we meet.” 

“The story is like this,” she answered. 
“Twelve or thirteen years ago, a gentleman of 
wealth, whose name was Radclifif, built the 
house and brought his young wife there to live. 
When they had been in the house but a week, 
she fell down the stairs and was killed. Mr. 
Radcliff became insane and was taken to an 
asylum where, shortly afterward, he also died. 

“How did they know that he was insane?” 
asked Keene, irrelevantly. 

“How do they know that anyone is insane? 
For one thing, he tried to kill his cook.” 

“That doesn’t prove that he was insane. 
Without doubt the cook deserved killing. Most 
cooks do. I have wanted to kill the cook often. 
If all the cooks were killed who deserved it, 
there would be a frightful mortality in the pro- 


THE GHOST AGAIN 


237 


fession. I have peculiar views about insanity 
and sanity. That is the reason why I asked 
how they knew that he was insane. The whole 
thing is a matter of opinion. For instance, I 
regard people as lunatics who go to vaudeville 
shows, to the so called musical comedies and to 
prize fights; who eat patent breakfast foods, 
wear tight shoes and read the best sellers. The 
people who dote upon these things naturally 
regard me as a raving maniac because I loathe 
them. Radcliflf’s cook, undoubtedly persisted in 
serving him with patent breakfast foods.” 

“Mr. Radclifi’s cook,” answered the girl, dis- 
dainfully, “undoubtedly persisted in interrupting 
him when he was trying to say something; as 
you have interrupted me in the telling of my 
story.” 

“I beg your pardon humbly, but I thought 
you had finished.” 

“After the death of Mr. Radcliffe, the man- 
sion remained untenanted for ten years. Strange 
sounds were heard coming from the house and 
lights were seen in the windows at night by 
chance wayfarers; so that it became common 
talk that it was haunted. Some people even 
claim to have seen a ghost.” 

“And what do they say the gentleman looks 
like?” 

“It isn’t a gentleman. It is a lady, and is 
supposed to be the ghost of Mrs. Radcliff. Some 
two years ago, Mr. Hare, a friend of ours, 
bought the house and, braving tradition, took 


NATE SAWYER 


238 

up his abode there. Whether he himself has 
seen the apparition, I know not.” 

“If this lady ghost is of a fair and attrac- 
tive appearance, let us hope that he has. Your 
friend, Mr. Hare will undoubtedly be in the 
condition of his March namesake when he finds 
out that I have broken into his house; however, 
here goes for the ghost, or I would say for the 
tea.” 

“You speak in a light and disrespectful man- 
ner, and I do not think that you believe in ghosts 
at all.” 

“There you wrong me. My faith in all kinds 
of apparitions is deeply seated and generous. 
I have always longed to meet a ghost face to 
face, and I live in hopes. People who wish to 
see ghosts usually see them. Though this does 
not always hold good. For instance, members 
of the theatrical profession often wish to see 
the ghost walk, but are disappointed. One must 
be in a receptive mood and have faith. The ghost 
always refuses to appear to the skeptic and the 
scoffer. The true ghost hates a skeptic as the 
Devil hates holy water. Well, I must be off. 
I must not keep the ghost waiting; especially the 
ghost of a lady.” 

“Keene had little trouble in climbing to the 
roof of the porch, and the unfastening of the 
catch of the shutter proved an easy matter. 
Fortunately, he found the lock of the sash 
broken and, raising the latter, he stepped across 
the sill into the room. The chamber in which 


THE GHOST AGAIN 


239 


he found himself seemed to be used as a store 
room. At the further end was a door which 
was fastened with a spring lock. Turning the 
knob or button of this lock, he opened the door 
and stepped into a corridor. Just then, how- 
ever, a puff of wind came from the open window 
and the door slammed to behind him, and he 
found himself in the blackest kind of utter dark- 
nesSv He then tried to open the door through 
which he had come, but there was no knob on 
that side of the door; nothing but a key hole. 

He now felt his way along the walls of the 
corridor, meaning to find the stairway of which 
the girls had spoken and so to descend to the 
lower floor. The hallway now seemed to turn 
to the right and, following it, he presently 
stumbled over two or three articles of furniture, 
and concluded that he had left the corridor and 
entered a bed chamber. After a while he came 
to a window and tried to open it, but neither 
sash would stir. They had either become 
warped, or had been firmly screwed or nailed 
in their places. 

What struck him forcibly was the absolute 
and utter silence of the house. Had a pin 
dropped in the lower story, he could have heard 
it. There was something eerie and uncanny 
about it and it got upon his nerves. 

After a while he succeeded in groping his 
way out of the chamber and into the hallway 
and, following this up to the end, he found him- 
self, to his annoyance, in another bed room, He 


240 


NATE SAWYER 


now realized to the full the complete helpless- 
ness of a man in the dark. If he were only a 
cat he would have no trouble at all. When that 
door with the spring lock had first closed behind 
him he had looked for a match in his match 
box and had found none. He now sought more 
carefully and found a single match. Very 
wisely, however, he concluded to save it until 
the last moment. 

Presently he heard a noise in the lower 
regions of the house. It was faint and far off 
and might have been made by a closing door 
or a chair falling upon the carpet. He listened 
for a while intently, but nothing further hap- 
pened. He was a hardened materialist and, had 
any one suggested that there was something 
supernatural in it, he would have laughed away 
the idea in scorn. Nevertheless, he was conscious 
of a tingling of the nerves, as he listened for 
further sounds. 

He felt his way about the chamber until he 
again found himself in the corridor and here, 
after wandering aimlessly for some moments he 
came to the railing of a stairway. Thinking 
naturally that his troubles were now past and 
gone, he descended to the lower floor. It 
occurred to him, however, that this was not the 
kitchen or back stairway, since the steps were 
covered with a thick soft carpet. He was 
evidently in the front hallway of the mansion. 
A few feet from the bottom of the stairs he came 
to a pair of large doors which seemed to him 


THE GHOST AGAIN 


241 


to be the front doors of the house. They were, 
however, locked and the key was not in the lock. 

In the wall to the left of the doors there was 
a wide doorway or arch which plainly led into 
the drawing or reception room. Into this he 
groped his way, with the result that he stumbled 
over several pieces of furniture, easy chairs, 
tables and the like. It now struck him that he 
heard other sounds ; the sounds of footsteps and 
of the rustling of women’s skirts. They were 
faint and lasted but for a moment and he owned 
to himself that he might be mistaken in thinking 
that he heard them. 

“Surely,” thought he, “those two witches 
have not climbed to the veranda roof.” 

He had found a door at the further end of 
the apartment and had passed through it into 
another room where there were books upon 
shelves against the wall. He was standing in 
the middle of the chamber when he was 
conscious that there was another person present. 
A sort of sixth sense told him of it. He even 
fancied that he could hear this person breathing. 
He followed up the sound until his left hand 
touched the books. Then he reached out his 
right hand and passed it over the soft roundness 
of a woman’s form. As he stepped back, snatch- 
ing away his hand, his fingers came into contact 
with smooth, silken tresses of hair, and he heard 
some small object drop upon the carpet. 

“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed. “Is that 
you. Miss Valeska?” 

16 


242 


NATE SAWYER 


There was no answer. 

He now bethought himself of the match and 
taking out his match box tried to extract it, but 
found that it was caught in the spring of the 
lid, so that it was some few seconds before he 
got it out. When he succeeded in lighting it, 
he was astonished, for there was no one in the 
room save himself. He picked up the small 
object which he had heard fall to the floor and, 
as the light flickered out, he caught a glimpse 
of an enlarged photograph on an easel upon the 
center table. It was the picture of Cynthia. 

He found a large leather-covered chair and 
sat down to await further developments, but 
there were none. He listened intently for 
further sounds, but all was as silent as the grave, 
excepting for the faint but distinct gnawing of 
a mouse in the wainscoting in some distant part 
of the building. Whoever it was who was in 
the house could not get out without his hearing 
them: Of that he felt assured. When, however, 
he had waited and listened for five minutes and 
had heard nothing, he decided to find his way 
out of doors where, he was certain, the enigma 
would be solved. He felt his way finally to a 
door opposite the one by which he had entered 
and, passing through, stumbled against a large 
round table, which seemed as if it might be a 
dining-table. He continued on through another 
door into a room with a bare wooden floor, and 
ran up against something hard which hurt his 
knee outrageously. This hard object proved to 


THE GHOST AGAIN 


243 


be a stove and he was rejoiced by the knowledge 
that, at last, he was in the much sought for 
kitchen. Without much trouble he found the 
outer door. He unbolted it, and flung it open, 
and, at once a great flood of light streamed in 
and almost blinded him. What was his astonish- 
ment now to see the two girls sitting exactly as 
he had left them upon the rustic bench by the 
spring. Their manner and attitude were in- 
dolent and unconcerned, and they were talking 
calmly and serenely. 

As he came toward them they looked up and 
he noticed a somewhat strange and startled ex- 
pression in their faces. 

“Wherever have you been for this quarter 
hour?” asked Valeska. “We certainly thought 
that you were taking a nap. You evidently for- 
got about the tea. It is too late for it now, as 
it would spoil our appetite for dinner.” 

“It is all on account of a door with a spring 
lock. After I had gone out of that room into 
which I climbed from the porch, the wind blew 
the door shut and left me in the most absolute 
and impenetrable darkness. Ever since then I 
have been wandering and blundering around 
trying to find the way to the kitchen. It 
was like trying to find a black cat in a dark 
cellar.” ,,,, 

“But what were air those strange noises 
which we heard?” 

“I made those noises falling over the 
furniture.” 


244 


NATE SAWYER 


“That is too bad. I am awfully sorry that 
I insisted on the tea.’” 

“I have a feeling that the suggestion of tea 
was part of a conspiracy.” 

“What kind of a conspiracy? You surely 
do not think that I could foresee that you would 
be left in the dark in that way? But what a 
strange appearance you have. There is dust 
on your clothing and a black smudge on your 
cheek. Your eyes also have a queer, blink- 
ing expression. I have it. You have seen the 
ghost.” 

“I have seen nothing. Remember how dark 
it was. I really thought, however, that I 
touched a ghost.” 

A faint smile stole over Cynthia’s face and 
she looked away across the valley toward the 
blue mountain tops. 

“How silly!” exclaimed Valeska. “One does 
not touch a ghost. If you tried to touch one, 
you could feel nothing.” 

“There are ghosts and ghosts,” answered 
Keene. “And I certainly did touch one. This 
ghost was probably one of the palpable kind.” 

“How exciting it must have been! And was 
it Mrs. Radcliff’s ghost?” 

“Not having known Mrs. Radcliff in the 
flesh, I cannot tell. If it was Mrs. Radcliff’s 
ghost, however, I will say that Mrs. Radcliff 
must have been a most charming and statuesque 
person. By the by, do ghosts, that is to say, lady 
ghosts, wear hair pins?” 


THE GHOST AGAIN 


245 

‘‘What a nonsensical question! Of course 
they do not.” 

“But in some of the pictures of ghosts which 
I have seen, the hair was put up in the con- 
ventional manner. This, of course, argues the 
use of hair pins.” 

“Oh, well, let us suppose that they do wear 
hair pins, only, of course, they must be of the 
same unsubstantial stuff as the ghost. I cannot 
understand though, why you should worry about 
the matter.” 

Arthur took a large tortoise-shell hair pin 
half way from his pocket and showed it sur- 
reptitiously to Valeska. The girl made a move- 
ment with her hand toward her hair, but'swifly 
desisted from it. Then she gazed away from 
him down the road at something which seemed 
to excite a more than passing interest. It seemed 
to Keene that she was laughing, but he could 
not be sure. 

When they were again in the car and had 
started toward home, the incident of the ghost 
was continually in his mind. He was morally 
certain that the girl sitting in front of him was 
with him in the house, and that it was her person 
that he had touched, but how had she entered 
the house, and how had she got out of it without 
his hearing her. The exhaust of the engines, the 
very clicking of the engines themselves seemed to 
take up the refrain and to repeat it over and over : 
“How did she get in? How did she get in? 
How did she get out?” 


CHAPTER VII 
The Shadow On The Curtain 

It will be easily concluded, from what we 
have seen of Valeska, that she was of a gay and 
mischievous nature and addicted to all manner 
of playful jest and nonsense; that she was, for 
the most part, of a merry disposition and pre- 
pared to trip through life with a laugh upon her 
lips and a roguish sparkle in her dark eyes. 

Cynthia, upon the other hand, was grave and 
demure and sweet. She was pensive without 
being sad and silent without being cold. Though 
she spoke very little, yet her gray eyes expressed 
volumes, and though her smile was shadowy 
and evanescent, yet was it replete with sympathy 
and understanding. 

It would be hard to say which of these two 
girls would make a man’s best life companion. 
In her own way each one of them was perfection. 
The average man, seeing both of them together 
for the first time, would not know how to choose 
between them and would most certainly wish to 
marry both. If a man should marry both of 
them and were tried for bigamy, and the girls 
were exhibited to the jury, the jury would surely 
acquit him on account of there having been 
such extenuating circumstances. 

We must give Keene credit, however, for 

246 


THE SHADOW 


247 


a more fixed and orthodox purpose. He had 
seen Valeska first and had fallen in love with 
her; not that he would not have fallen in love 
with her had he seen both girls at once and at 
the same time. Moreover, though it was but 
twenty-four hours since he had beheld her, he 
was in love with her a hundred fathoms deep. 
He wanted her, wanted her very badly and have 
her he must and would. 

At dinner that first night they were all three 
in the conventional evening dress. Valeska 
presided over the tea and coffee things, 
Keene sat opposite her and carved while Cynthia 
sat at his left hand, between him and Valeska, 
the table being reduced to a convenient and cozy 
size. The candles, shaded with colored mantles, 
threw a soft and mystic hue upon fair cheeks 
and softly outlined arms and shoulders. The 
young man gazed at the face of the girl opposite 
him with all his heart in his eyes. He con- 
ducted himself with propriety, his remarks and 
actions were sane and decorous, and no one ob- 
serving him would have supposed that he was 
crazy. Yet crazy he was, and growing crazier 
every moment. Arthur noticed that the ladies 
were continually calling each other by name, 
usually adding some term of endearment. It 
was something like this: 

^‘One lum.p or two, to-night, Cynthia dear?” 

^‘Two, Valeska darling.” 

“Cynthia mine, how do you like this recipe 
for French dressing?” 


248 


NATE SAWYER 


the two Valeska dearest, I think I prefer 
the old one.” 

And so it went. It was Cynthia this and 
Valeska that and Cynthia here and Valeska 
there, until the young man could but give the 
matter some notice. 

The waitress, a comely country girl, was 
holding a dish of salad, which she was about to 
place upon the table. Suddenly, without warn- 
ing and without any apparent reason, she gave 
utterance to a loud, foolish giggle, then she 
giggled again and now, as if the giggling were 
but the prelude, she began to laugh chokingly 
and seemed as though she were becoming 
hysterical. 

“Martha,” commanded Valeska sternly, “put 
that dish down on the table and go into the 
kitchen. When I want you, I will ring.” 

“What is the matter with the girl?” asked 
the young man. 

“How should I know,” answered Valeska. 
“It is impossible to explain the vagaries of an 
idiot.” 

Keene thought the occurrence a very strange 
one. Why did the girl giggle at that particular 
moment? Nothing had happened to provoke 
her mirth. Several times, during the meal and 
the evening afterward, the thing came into his 
mind. It was, to be sure, a trifling matter, but 
why did she do it? 

The dessert was upon the table when, sud- 
denly, out of the corner of his eye, Arthur caught 


THE SHADOW 


249 


sight of some white object, standing upright 
upon the floor beside him. He turned and saw 
a large, sleek, well fed, black and white cat, 
who was sitting up on his haunches and begging 
like a dog. His big, bright green eyes were 
fixed upon Keene’s face. His head was tilted 
aside and upward and his countenance was alight 
with intelligence and appeal. 

Keene gave an exclamation of surprise. He 
had never seen a cat begging. He did not know 
that this is one of the accomplishments of learned 
felines. 

“Oh, there is Tommy,” exclaimed Valeska. 
“He sees a stranger present, who does not know 
that he is an arrant humbug and at once tries to 
impose upon him. He has had his dinner 
already, so you must not give him anything.” 

“But how, in the name of Heaven, can I 
resist giving him something? Look at that face 
and those saucer eyes, and those dependent and 
suppliant paws. I never saw anything like that 
before in my life. I must give him something.” 

Arthur put some charlotte russe in a saucer 
and placed it before Mr. Grimalkin, who at 
once fell upon all fours and proceeded to lap 
it up. 

“How did you ever teach him?” he asked. 

“We did not each him,” said Valeska. “He 
taught himself. Our fox terrier always sits up 
and^begs for his dinner. Tommy was generally 
at hand on these occasions, and noticing that the 
terrier, by reason of his accomplishments, ob- 


250 


NATE SAWYER 


tained more than his fair share of largesse, con- 
ceived the idea of sitting up and begging like 
the terrier.” 

As they arose from the table, Tommy 
finished his repast and, running to the door 
which led into the library, turned and looked at 
them and began to miaow. 

^‘He wants to play ball,” said Cynthia. When 
they were all come into the drawing room, 
Valeska took a sheet of letter paper and 
crumpled it into a small ball about an inch and 
a quarter in diameter; Tommy meanwhile walk- 
ing around her and regarding the operations 
with all the marks of a lively interest. Valeska, 
having seated herself in a chair by the window, 
threw the ball through the archway into the 
library, so that it went to the farthest corner of 
the room and lodged under a sofa. Tommy 
went after it, a streak of black and white 
lightning and, disappearing under the sofa, 
emerged a moment later with the ball in his 
teeth. He then trotted slowly back to his mis- 
tress and laid it at her feet. This was repeated 
a dozen times and then Tommy, after bringing 
back the ball, stretched himself upon his side 
upon the rug, as if he said: “I’m tired. That’s 
enough for the present.” 

“I never saw a cat fetch and carry like a 
dog, either,” said Keene. “Tommy certainly 
possesses the wisdom of the ages and he should 
have a more distinguished name. This is a trick 
which of course you taught him, though I do 


THE SHADOW 


251 

not see how you went to work to do it.” 

“No,” answered Valeska, “he was also self- 
instructed in this. It commenced by our throw- 
ing the ball for him, then, one day, he brought 
the ball back to us, and finding that it was such 
capital sport, he has kept it up ever since. The 
funniest part of the whole thing is that he always 
wishes us to play ball after dinner, as you saw 
just now. You say that he should have a more 
distinguished name. What do you say to 
Thomas a Becket? That is really and truly 
his full name and it seems too that it leaves 
nothing to be desired in the way you mention. 

“I can understand the Thomas,” said Keene, 
“but why a Becket?” 

“Why, it occurred to us that Thomas a Becket 
was the most celebrated of all the Thomases 
in history. That was, I think, the reason of it.” 

“Since you have named the cat, ‘Thomas a 
Becket,’ you should naturally call the terrier, 
‘Henry the Second,’ suggested Arthur. 

“Tommy has none of his namesake’s cantan- 
kerous qualities,” answered Valeska. “He is of 
a most lovable and affectionate nature, and of 
an equable and benign disposition. He never 
spits or growls and he treats the terrier, or, as 
you would have him named, ‘Henry the 
Second,’ with friendly and tolerant familiarity; 
provided always that Henry the Second does not 
poach upon his own particular bone or saucer 
of milk.” 

Arthur was much amused by the performance 


252 


NATE SAWYER 


of this paragon of animals, and he laughed to 
himself at the serious way in which his mistress 
recounted his virtues. He did not know that 
Thomas a Becket was soon to play an important 
part in the unfolding of the drama in which he 
himself was an actor. 

Presently, at Cynthia’s suggestion, they went 
out into the garden and sat in the pavilion. It 
was a warm, delightful night, the air was heavy 
with the scent of the flowers, the sky of a blue 
blackness and a thousand myriads of stars shone 
out with a white and brilliant luster. 

They listened to the tinkle of the fountain 
and the soft chirp of birds settling themselves 
for the night, and they watched the pale green 
Luna moth and the humming bird moth hover- 
ing over the roses and syringas. They looked 
at the stars, and Cynthia, who was learned in 
astronomy, pointed out all the different planets 
and constellations. 

Valeska wondered what had become of the 
seventh Pleiad and recited a poem upon the 
subject, and Keene, who, besides having made 
several other voyages, had navigated a yacht 
from Boston to Bermuda, thence to Porto Rico 
and St. Thomas and from there to the Azores 
and Gibraltar and back again to Boston, ex- 
plained the manner of taking an observation 
from the sun and moon and from the polar star 
and Aldebaran and how the result was figured 
out to get the latitude. 

They discussed the nebular hypothesis, the 


THE SHADOW 


253 


rings of Saturn and the four moons of Jupiter; 
they talked of the Planet Mars with its snow- 
capped polar regions, its irrigating canals and 
its seas and oceans. Then they argued as to 
whether there were inhabitants upon Mars and 
Venus and how far they might differ in appear- 
ance from the human beings of earth by reason 
of the difference in temperature, atmosphere 
and gravity. 

A maid now came from the house and handed 
a note to Cynthia and that young lady, excusing 
herself for a few minutes, followed the maid in 
doors and left Keene and Valeska alone for the 
first time. Keene at once sought to avail himself 
of the opportunity. 

“I little thought. Miss Valeska,” said he, 
“when I left you yesterday, or rather, when you 
left me, that I should have the pleasure of seeing 
you again so soon, and that I should find you 
the daughter of Stephen Marwood.” 

“When I left you yesterday?” asked the girl, 
with an inflection as if she did not understand 
him. 

“Yes, in the glen, by the bungalow.” 

“What glen and what bungalow?” she asked 
guilelessly. 

“I see,” said the young man, smiling, “that 
you intend to mystify and have some fun with 
me, but it will not do. I mean the cottage hid- 
den in the old stone-quarry in the glen, the place 
where I was marooned upon a rock, from which 
you rescued me by pushing a tree trunk across 


254 


NATE SAWYER 


the chasm. That is categorical enough, isn’t it?” 

“I do not know what you are talking about,” 
said Valeska. 

“Ha, ha,” laughed Arthur, “I suppose you 
will say next that we have never met until 
to-day.” 

“But we haven’t,” answered the girl, looking 
at him calmly and collectedly. 

It began now to dawn upon Keene that the 
young lady was serious in the matter, that she 
was, with malice prepense, taking the position 
that they had never met before that morning, 
and that she meant really to ignore everything 
which happened upon the day before. She was 
truly a most exasperating and tantalizing speci- 
men of womankind. 

“Do you really and definitely mean to say 
that we did not meet in the forest yesterday, 
under the circumstances which I have just 
mentioned; that you did not take me to the 
cottage or bungalow and procure for me supper 
and lodging, and that you did not exact from 
me a promise to the effect that I would never 
mention our meeting, or reveal the existence of 
the house in the glen?” 

“That is what I mean exactly,” answered 
Valeska, with a teasing slowness, “and besides, 
if you really did make such a promise to some 
lady whom you met, it seems to me that it was 
not worth much, for you have substantially told 
me all about the matter.” 

It was some time before Keene could fully 


THE SHADOW 


255 


realize the state of affairs and the whole thing 
caused him much wonder and astonishment. He 
looked at Valeska in admiration. 

“You are certainly the smartest girl whom 
I have met in many a year, and I see that you 
must have your way like the generality of Eve’s 
daughters. As to the promise though, I have 
told the secret to none but you, nor shall it go 
further. Thus I still maintain that the promise 
is intact.” 

Cynthia now returned from the house, and 
the subject was dropped for the time at least. 

At half past ten Keene bade the young ladies 
good night and sought his quarters at the Inn. 
When he had gone up to his chamber he stood 
irresolute and debated the question as to whether 
he should go to bed. He had a lot to think about 
and sleep was out of the question. He would 
take tobacco and pipes and go down and sit 
upon the porch, facing the river, and think about 
the girl. 

He found the porch deserted and, as he sat 
there in the cool of the silent night, every in- 
cident of the last forty-eight hours passed clearly 
in review before him. He certainly loved the 
girl. He had to acknowledge it to himself. It 
was surprising how much a man could fall in 
love in that short time. He had always ridiculed 
the idea of such a thing being possible. There 
were a number of incidents in his acquaintance 
with her which annoyed him. Why should they 
annoy him if he was not deeply interested in her? 


NATE SAWYER 


256 

He checked these disagreeable things off upon 
his fingers. Item one: She was intimately con- 
nected with some person or persons who were 
hiding, yes, hiding was the only name for it, 
in the house of the abandoned stone-quarry. 
Item two: She was fearful that these people 
would be found out. Item three: One of these 
people, the fisherman whom he had seen in the 
glen, was a well-favored youth and a poet and 
painter to boot. Item four: They had met this 
young man while they were motoring, and he 
could have sworn that Valeska blushed. Item 
five: Valeska had most astonishingly repudiated 
Keene’s former meeting with her and every- 
thing connected with it. Little things came up 
too in his memory and added their quota to the 
whole confounded mystery. Why was it that 
the girl who waited upon them at dinner should 
have a fit of giggling when there was no ap- 
parent reason for it? What was that vague 
something in Cynthia’s speech and manner 
which clothed her with an undefinable strange- 
ness? He concluded that the queerest thing 
about the whole affair was that, notwithstanding 
the presence of so many adverse factors in the 
case, he was surely growing fonder of the girl 
with every moment. Therein he reasoned 
falsely. These factors which he called adverse 
were of the very opposite quality. They 
were the barriers which excited his wish for 
possession; they were the sauce, the relish 
which increased his appetite and made 


THE SHADOW 


257 


the beloved object seem still more desirable. 

Urged by an irresistible longing to be near 
the girl and to visit once more the scenes made 
dear by her daily presence, where he could think 
of her to his heart’s content, he decided to go 
up once more to the Marwood house. It was 
nearly midnight, and they would all surely have 
retired. He would seek the pavilion in the 
garden and from that spot, made sweet by her 
recent presence, with his eyes fixed upon the 
walls which contained her, he would give him- 
self up to the contemplation of her spright- 
liness, her beauty and all the dear, complex 
mystery of her nature. He was in the garden, 
on his way to the pavilion and, all at once, he 
noticed that the library was lighted up, the 
shades being already drawn. As he stopped and 
gazed, surprised that anyone should be up at 
that late hour, a man’s figure was silhouetted 
upon the curtain. He was young and of a good 
figure, and wore a pointed beard. There was 
no mistaking him; he was the fisherman of the 
glen, the man who had passed them in the car. 
As Keene looked, his soul filled with bitterness, 
the form of the cat, Thomas a Becket suddenly 
appeared upon a table by the man’s side. The 
cat rubbed his head against the man’s sleeve. 
This showed that the man was a familiar figure 
in the house, for Thomas a Becket had not 
rubbed his head against Keene when they had 
met that evening. 

Presently the figure of a girl was pictured 
17 


258 


NATE SAWYER 


upon the shade at the man’s side. Then the 
man placed his arm upon the girl’s shoulder 
and, together the man and the girl stroked the 
back of Thomas a Becket. Then the man 
turned and took the girl’s two hands in his and 
seemed to be talking earnestly with her, and 
then he put his arm around her waist and they 
walked away and their shadows disappeared. 
Keene could not see whether the girl was 
Valeska or Cynthia, since they were both of 
the same height and general contour. His 
reason told him that it was Valeska, but his 
heart kept saying all the time: It is not Valeska, 
it cannot be she, it must not be she. It is 
Cynthia.” 

He stole noiselessly from the garden and 
tramped the road for an hour before he went 
back to his bed at the Inn. For a long time he 
lay awake, arguing the pros and cons of the 
matter. 

“He did not kiss her anyway,” was his 
reflection. 


CHAPTER VIII 
The Telltale Photographs 

When he awoke in the morning, the bright 
sunlight was shining into his chamber and, as 
he again thought of the occurrences of the pre- 
ceding night, his reason seemed to reassert itself; 
his brain seemed to clear, and he felt that he 
could take a more common-sense view of the 
matter. 

“I am making a confounded fool of myself,” 
thought he. “I am getting into no end of a 
mess with this girl and the longer I stay here 
the worse it will be for me in the end.” I will 
arise and go to my father; that is to say, I would 
go to my father, were he alive, which he isn’t, 
but I will do the next best thing, which is to 
take the first train for New York. I have been 
away from the city too long, as it is. I am 
getting rusty, I am seeing things. These woods 
and mountains make me sentimental. I am get- 
ting to look at matters from a wrong viewpoint. 
Things haven’t got their proper proportion. I 
am absolutely going insane about a girl, who is 
already spoken for and who is besides tangled 
up in some mysterious way with some altogether 
likely nefarious persons. Of course, she isn’t 
to blame. She’s too handsome and sweet and 
refined. Oh, the devil! what’s the use?” 

259 


26 o 


NATE SAWYER 


So he got out of bed and dressed and ate 
a hurried breakfast. Then he packed in 
desperate haste, throwing his vestments into 
suit case and bag, as if he were casting refuse 
into an ash can. Next he wrote a note to the 
Marwoods telling them that he had been called 
suddenly to the city, and making his excuses in 
proper and decent fashion. This note he took 
with him to the railway station and sent a boy 
with it to their house, just as the train came in. 
He did not send it earlier as he was afraid that 
one or both of the girls might come to the station 
or meet him on the village street, and he felt 
that it would be better not to put his resolution 
to such a test. 

After the train started and he had settled 
himself in the buffet car with a cigar, he felt 
that he had done a very creditable thing. He 
prided himself upon the resolution which he 
had shown. “It was best, after all,” thought 
he, “to cut the Gordian knot. To get out of it, 
while I could do so, without a heart ache.” He 
was certainly following the path of wisdom, and 
he was glad of it. As for the girl herself, she 
was certainly the best in the world, but what 
was the use of that, as long as the thing was 
impossible. He would think no more of her, 
and that settled it. 

And he kept to his word and thought no 
more of her; he thought no more of her for at 
least five minutes. A hundred times he forced 
his mind to dwell upon other things and a hun- 


TELLTALE PHOTOGRAPHS 261 


dred times he found himself thinking of the girl 
again. When they came to the city where the 
Adirondack road made a junction with the main 
line, several people got into his Pullman car; 
among them being two fairly pretty girls. He 
could not look at these two girls without com- 
paring them with Valeska and noting how much 
the latter surpassed them in the dark silkiness 
of her hair, the oval of her face, the soft tint 
of her skin and the slender grace of her figure. 
When half of the eight hours of the journey 
had passed, he felt his resolution oozing away. 
He wondered whether he had been hasty in 
taking his departure from Glendale, whether 
he had ascribed too great importance to the 
mysterious and annoying incidents of the pre- 
ceding two days, and whether it would all have 
come out right and satisfactory and his faith 
in the girl have been justified, had he only re- 
mained a little longer. However, the die was 
cast, he had crossed the Rubicon and he must 
now keep on to the bitter end. 

When he arrived at the Grand Central 
Station, he got his things into a taxicab and 
was quickly transferred to a bachelor’s apartment 
house on upper Madison Avenue, where he 
maintained a suite of rooms for his use when 
in the city. He got hold of a man who acted as 
a supernumerary valet in the house and, after 
unpacking, taking a shower bath and dressing, 
he went to his favorite restaurant for dinner; 
an exclusive little jewel of a place where the 


262 


NATE SAWYER 


dignified waiters spoke in whispers, where the 
cooking was a miracle, the lights subdued and 
rose-colored, the silver solid and the napery like 
driven snow. Here were a number of ladies, 
dressed in quiet and exquisite taste, many of them 
delicately beautiful in face and form. He was 
sorry that he had come there, for this one had 
a mouth and teeth something like the girl’s, 
another one actually had a dimple, and the back 
of the neck of still another, with the fluffy 
tendrils of hair caressing it, was also like the 
girl’s. Could he go nowhere without being 
forever reminded of her? To cap the climax, 
he had no appetite. The cooking was not what 
it was formerly. His filet a la Creole was rank 
with garlic. His Chateau La Fitte of 1880 
was like vinegar. 

Leaving his dinner, for the most part, un- 
eaten, he went to see a play which had been 
warmly praised by the dramatic critics and 
which was drawing large houses. The so called 
pathetic parts of the drama made him laugh and 
the funny parts were pitiable. He was enraged 
that the audience should laugh at such drivel 
and he glowered at the applauding spectators 
in his vicinity. It was rotten. 

Then he went to a club to which he belonged. 
There were a number of men sitting around in 
the smoking room. They were drinking Scotch 
whiskey, talking scandal and telling stories 
which were scarcely decent. Two or three of 
them spoke to him. He answered them rudely 


TELLTALE PHOTOGRAPHS 263 

and went out, cursing under his breath at the 
sordid coarseness and worthlessness and foulness 
of the whole outfit. 

Next he went to one of those all night, 
lobster and champagne palaces, for kill time he 
must. Here were ladies of a lighter sort, many 
of them undeniably beautiful, all of them 
superbly robed and sparkling with jewels. He 
noted the rouge and the powder on their hand- 
some faces, and as he watched their cheeks grow 
flushed and their eyes sparkling and moist, and 
heard their voices growing louder and their 
laughter sillier, he was filled with disgust and 
loathing. Oh, wasn’t it rotten? 

Then a vision of the wilderness arose before 
him, with its craggy mountains, millions of 
years old, covered with their garments of pine 
trees, sparkling in the sun and darkly green and 
mysterious in the sunset; its thousands of placid 
lakes set like sapphires in the woodland, the 
myriads of streams and rivers, now winding 
darkly beneath the tamaracks, now brawling 
among the boulders, or leaping like specks of 
diamond dust from the cliffs and making 
miniature rainbows out of the sunlight. And 
then the crisp, pure air of the mornings and the 
soft, sweet zephyrs of the woodland nights. 
And the life of it all: the pleasant toil, the 
homely fare, the long, refreshing sleep of the 
cool nights, the honesty of it, the sweet reason- 
ableness of it. That was something worth while. 
This scene which he had before him was hell. 


264 


NATE SAWYER 


And, besides all, each different scene of the 
forest and mountain, as it came before him, 
brought back inevitably the vision of a face, 
pure, fresh and radiant, the face of Valeska. 
What wonder that he arose, sick and disil- 
lusioned with all the meanness, the vice and the 
pettiness of these haunts of men, and sought his 
apartments, with the call of the wild appealing 
to him, and a half formed. resolution to heed the 
call. 

He spent another restless night and, falling 
asleep at daybreak, slept until noon. After 
breakfasting, he walked for an hour, all the 
time undecided; now making up his mind to 
return to the Adirondacks and again putting 
the scheme away from him as weak and fruitless. 

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, 
and he was still arguing the matter with himself, 
when he chanced upon a fortunate omen. A 
wonderful thing it was, that it should happen 
at that particular moment, a most strange and 
astonishing coincidence. 

He had stopped in a hallway upon Fifth 
Avenue, to look at some photographs. He was 
glancing uninterestedly over the faces of a 
number of pretty women when suddenly he 
stared spellbound, while his heart seemed to 
come into his throat. Half way down the show- 
case, the face of a girl, more beautiful than any 
of the others, looked out at him with mocking 
eyes, and that face was the face of Valeska. 

After gazing at the picture so long that he 


TELLTALE PHOTOGRAPHS 265 

was ashamed to be seen loitering there any 
longer, a deep and wicked plot took shape in 
his mind, and he went up the stairs into the 
photographer’s studio. There were a number 
of people there, clerks or attendants and patrons 
of the place. He approached one of the former, 
a young man of eighteen or twenty, and asked 
him a number of questions about the prices of 
different sizes of photographs and the merits 
of different styles of finish; then he took him 
down to the street, ostensibly to show him some 
particular fashion of picture which he fancied. 
When he got him down there, he took from his 
pocket a ten dollar bill and put it into the young 
fellow’s hand. Then he pointed to the likeness 
of Valeska. 

“I suppose,” said he, “you could get me one 
of that young lady’s pictures, without much 
trouble, could you not?” 

“Oh, no, it’s against the rules, you know. I 
couldn’t think of it.” 

He looked at the bill lovingly. 

“There are one or two other photographs 
of her, upstairs, in different poses. I will show 
them to you, if you like. And there are 
pictures too, of her sister or cousin, I don’t know 
which it is. I think, myself, that she is hand- 
somer than this one.” 

Keene followed the young man up stairs 
again, and was shown two other different like- 
nesses of Valeska, and also three photographs 
of Cynthia. The attendant took them out of a 


266 


NATE SAWYER 


show case which rested upon the counter and 
handed them to him. Keene took up the 
pictures of Valeska and gazed fixedly upon 
them. Each one of them, as he looked at it, 
seemed the prettier. He glanced at the reverse 
side of the card and was astonished to see the 
name of Miss Cynthia Marwood written upon 
it, with the date of the sitting. He then looked 
at the backs of Cynthia’s photographs and found 
that they were marked Miss Valeska Marwood. 

“You have got the names mixed,” said he 
to the young man. “These photographs marked 
Miss Cynthia Marwood should have been 
written Valeska Marwood, and vice versa.” 

“No,” answered the attendant. “I know 
that they are labeled correctly. It was only 
a month ago that we had a duplicate order from 
Miss Valeska Marwood, and we sent her the 
photographs which you see marked with her 
name. I know all about it, for I sent them 
myself, and besides that, she paid for them after- 
wards. Which showed that I sent the right 
ones.” 

“Is there no other way by which you can 
prove, without question that they are marked 
correctly?” 

“Certainly, I can look up the negatives and 
they will settle the matter without doubt.” 

The young man went into another room and 
came back again in five minutes. 

“The negatives are labeled just as these 
photographs are, so that ought to settle it.” 


TELLTALE PHOTOGRAPHS 267 

“It seems so,” said Keene. 

As he spoke, he took out a yellow-backed 
bill and crumpled it up and thrust it into the 
attendant’s vest pocket. 

“That enlarged crayon picture upon the 
wall yonder,” said he, “what would such a one 
cost me?” 

The young man looked in the direction in- 
dicated, and Arthur took the pictures which 
were labeled Miss Cynthia Marwood and 
thrust them into his inside coat pocket. 

The attendant smiled shamefacedly. 

“About twenty dollars,” said he. 

From the photographer’s Keene went directly 
to his apartments. Here he sat down in an easy 
chair before the open window and, taking 
Cynthia’s pictures from his pocket, regarded 
them long and delightedly. She had posed for 
them in different attitudes. In one she was 
sitting, with her elbow upon the arm of the 
chair and her chin supported by her hand; in 
the other, she was standing back of the chair and 
leaning upon it. She wore a large picture hat 
and her gown looked like the latest creation of 
Redfern or Reutlinger. 

“So you are Cynthia and not Valeska,” he 
soliloquised. I never liked the name of Valeska. 
There was aValeska once who was a lady friend 
of Napoleon Bonaparte. I am glad your 
name is Cynthia. I like the name better; it 
is more appropriate. ‘Cynthia of the Wood- 
land,’ I will call you. Cynthia is another name 


268 


NATE SAWYER 


for Diana. Diana was the hunting goddess. 
When I first met you, you were the little huntress, 
and you are certainly a goddess. It is a strange 
thing that these two girls should have mas- 
queraded, each under the name of the other. 
Why did they do it? Was it simply a non- 
sensical prank of two mischief-loving maidens, 
or was it done with a purpose, and, if so, what 
was that purpose? Probably something connected 
with the mysterious dwellers in the house of the 
stone quarry. There were a number of signifi- 
cant sayings and happenings which should have 
led me to make the discovery sooner. It was 
a suspicious thing that they should have called 
each other by name so frequently and pointedly, 
during the dinner; and the giggling of Martha. 
Yes, it is plain now why Martha giggled.’’ 

Arthur no longer hesitated. He had come 
to a resolution immediately upon finding 
Cynthia’s picture. He would go back to the 
scenes of forest and mountain which he had left 
so precipitately the day before. More than that, 
he would take the very first train. He sent his 
man out for a time table, found that an Adiron- 
dack train left at eight o’clock at night, and had 
his things repacked and taken to the Grand 
Central Station. He had dinner that evening 
at the same restaurant which he had visited the 
night before, but he no longer slighted the re- 
past. His possession of Cynthia’s pictures 
seemed to him a happy omen. It was the next 
thing to having the girl herself, and he ate and 


TELLTALE PHOTOGRAPHS 269 

drank with a zest and relish which he had not 
had for forty-eight hours. 

It was seven o’clock upon the following 
morning when Keene alighted from his sleeping 
car at Glendale. He had his baggage taken to 
the Inn, and fortunately was able to secure the 
same comfortable rooms which he had re- 
linquished two days before. 

He could not, in decency, call upon the 
Marwoods before eleven o’clock. The time seemed 
to stand still, and those three or four hours 
seemed a week. As he walked up the hill to- 
wards the mansion, he noted the freshness and 
the invigorating quality of the air, the sky 
seemed bluer and softer, the valley more quietly 
beautiful, and the forest-clad mountains more 
picturesquely grand and hoary. He strode for- 
ward with a buoyant step and he was filled with 
all sorts of pleasurable anticipations. 

The door was opened for him by the same 
maid who had admitted him upon his first visit 
to the house, but, alas, when he asked for the 
ladies, he was told that they were both away 
from home. 

“Miss Cynthia Marwood,” said the girl to 
the disappointed youth, “is gone to the city and 
will return on to-morrow evening’s train. Miss 
Marwood is also away, but I don’t exactly 
know where she went. I only know that she 
said she would be back in time to meet her 
cousin.” 

Keene was turning away when suddenly a 


270 


NATE SAWYER 


thought came to him. He first resorted to his 
usual tactics, that is to say, he took a yellow- 
backed bank note from his pocket book and 
handed it to the girl. 

“When you say that Miss Cynthia has gone 
to the city, you mean Miss Valeska Marwood, 
Mr. Stephen Marwood’s daughter, do you not?” 
Come now, you needn’t hesitate, I know all 
about this change of names; but you mix me up 
horribly and I really want to know whether it 
was Miss Valeska or Miss Cynthia.” 

“Well, it was Miss Valeska, if you really 
insist on knowing,” said the maid, blushing. 
“You must not say that I told you though.” 

As Arthur went away from the house, he 
told himself, first, that he was right in supposing 
that the little huntress, the girl with the dimple, 
was Cynthia, and second, that Cynthia was 
again paying a visit to the strange people in 
the glen. This last thought, as may well be 
imagined, did not please him at all. 


CHAPTER IX 
Leonardo da Vinci 

A serious question now confronted Keene. 
How was he to kill the time between then and 
the afternoon or evening of the next day? He 
calculated that it would be all of thirty hours 
before he could hope to meet the illusive Cynthia 
once more, and never had thirty hours seemed 
such an eternity of time. One thing he might 
do, and the idea was certainly an alluring one. 
He would spend the afternoon exploring the 
Devil’s Gorge, and trying to locate the fissure 
in the rocks where he had met with his mishap, 
and where he had been extricated from a 
perilous and awkward dilemma by the skill and 
presence of mind of the strangely attired and 
charming little Amazon. 

He could reach the gorge, which had its 
beginning some four miles from Glendale, by 
following Otter Creek. By keeping to the left 
bank of the Creek, he would have a safe and 
accessible path to the very top of the gorge. At 
the same time, he would be able to scan the line 
of cliffs upon the opposite side, and it would 
be a strange thing if he should not be able to 
hit upon the exact spot where he had gotten into 
difficulty. This left-hand or western side was 
the one which old Nate had told him to follow, 

271 


272 


NATE SAWYER 


and it certainly was the left-hand side, provided 
that one approached it from below. According 
to the old guide, the path was quite practicable, 
though somewhat rough and toilsome; in fact, 
when he had made that memorable descent of 
the ravine, he had noticed, as he, from time to 
time, cast his eyes across the creek, that the 
western bank of the stream was comparatively 
easy of passage throughout its whole length. 

After dinner then, he clad himself in his 
woodsman’s garb: Khaki jacket and breeches 
and heavy hobnailed shoes and, taking with him 
a stout beech wood stick or alpenstock, he set 
out upon his ascent of Otter Creek. In an hour 
and a half he arrived at the commencement of 
the gorge and now, keeping to the bottom of 
the ravine, alongside the stream, had no difficulty 
in finding a footing upon the stratum of rocks 
between the water and the walls of the cliff. 
The current of the stream each moment became 
swifter, the surroundings wilder and more 
picturesque, and his path steeper and more tire- 
some, though there was no obstacle of real im- 
portance to his progress. 

When he had ascended the gorge to the 
distance of a mile and a half, the walls on both 
sides of him seemed to grow more familiar, and 
to have the character which they exhibited at 
the point where his progress had been stopped 
on the previous occasion, so that he began to 
look eagerly for the smaller glen or fissure, 
which he remembered so well. 


LEONARDO DA VINCI 


273 


The canon made somewhat of a turn at a 
spot some way ahead of him, and he pressed for- 
ward anxiously, supposing that this fissure would 
come into sight when he had turned the inter- 
vening corner of the cliff. He was not mistaken. 
When he had passed the angle of rocks, at a 
short distance ahead of him, yawned a cleft in 
the walls of the gulley which resembled, as far 
as he was able to tell, viewing it from underneath 
instead of from above, the one which he was in 
search of. It extended downward from the top 
of the precipice a matter of sixty or seventy 
feet, and its bottom was something more than 
a hundred feet above the spot where he stood. 
There was the small cascade also, which tumbled 
from it into the larger gorge, the water of 
which was changed to spray long before it 
reached the rocks below. The sun was now 
declining to the west and hung, like a ball 
of fire, just above the cliffs at his left hand, 
so that its rays, shining upon the crystal veil 
of falling water, threw an almost perfect rain- 
bow upon the wet moss-grown wall of rock 
behind it. 

Arthur was certain of his locality. He could 
not make out, however, from where he stood, 
the ledge upon which the apparition of Cynthia 
had first come to him, nor even the one upon 
which he had fallen in his attempt to clear the 
fissure. This, though might be merely a matter 
of perspective. The point where he expected to 
find them was fully a hundred and sixty feet 

18 


274 


NATE SAWYER 


above him, and they might well be hidden by 
the convexity of rock beneath. 

He stood there a long while, looking upward 
and trying to convince himself that he was not 
mistaken in the locality. Growing tired, how- 
ever, of this monotonous and uncomfortable 
occupation, he at last started again on his ascent, 
and, strange to say, when he had gone about a 
quarter of a mile farther, the canon all the while 
having the same characteristics of size and 
scenery, he beheld another fissure, so like the 
first in every way, that he could not have told 
in which it was that those extraordinary events 
had happened. He could make out a ledge 
upon the upper left-hand-side of this one, but it 
did not seem, in other respects, familiar. Then, 
too, the upper walls of the cleft seemed, from 
his viewpoint, to approach each other so closely 
that he could have stepped from one to the other. 
It might have been an optical delusion, but he 
had crossed several of these narrow chasms in 
his memorable descent, and he now came to the 
conclusion that the lower fissure was the one he 
was in search of. 

He soon, however, found himself again 
doubtful of the matter, for, during the next half 
mile of his ascent, he counted no less than half 
a dozen more of these cracks or openings, ex- 
tending back from the main gorge. He recol- 
lected now that, on his descent toward Glendale, 
he had passed a number of these smaller fissures ; 
several by leaping, while others were so wide 


LEONARDO DA VINCI 


275 


at their mouths that he had found it necessary 
to follow them up for some distance before they 
were narrow enough for him to cross. They 
were situated at such a height above him, and 
all had such a similarity of appearance, that he 
finally found himself completely confused and 
utterly unable to locate the particular spot which 
he had wished to find. 

After an hour or so more of toilsome climb- 
ing, he at last emerged at the upper end of the 
great ravine. It was now toward evening, and, 
feeling somewhat spent with his arduous exer- 
tions, he sat down upon a huge boulder, which 
lay at the point where the dark and swift stream 
issued from the forest to commence its pre- 
cipitous descent, and rested for a quarter hour, 
refreshing himself with some frugal provisions 
which he had brought from the Inn, washing 
down his repast with copious libations of the 
pure, cold water of the creek, and further solac- 
ing himself, for ten minutes, with the fragrant 
aroma of his pipe. 

Deciding now to ascend the stream for some 
distance farther, he at once sprang up and pro- 
ceeded to put his plan into execution. For some 
distance above, the black waters of the flood 
swept with great swiftness through the dense 
and overarching forest, and this part of his 
journey was no easy matter, as the ground was 
very rough and the undergrowth thick and stub- 
born. On account of these difficulties, and after 
he had proceeded for the distance of a half mile, 


NATE SAWYER 


276 

he concluded that he had had enough of it and 
it was time for him to return. As, however, he 
turned to retrace his steps along the stream, 
something happened which astonished him ex- 
ceedingly and gave him much to think about 
for a considerable time. 

He was engaged in forcing his way through 
a particularly thick and tangled piece of under- 
growth. He was about twenty feet from the 
banks of the torrent, which at that part was very 
narrow and swept beneath the branches of the 
forest with great rapidity and violence. He 
suddenly heard a splashing sound, and, looking 
up, distinctly saw a man in a canoe shoot past 
him down the creek and vanish in an instant 
beneath the dark and impenetrable foliage. 

At once the tales of old Nate recurred to 
his mind about the unfortunate and misguided 
men who had essayed to boat it down Otter 
Creek and who had been dashed to pieces or 
drowned in the attempt. But this individual 
whom he had caught a momentary glance of 
had passed the point of danger instanced by the 
guide and seemed to have his canoe well in hand, 
and a well-grounded doubt of the old man’s 
veracity arose in Keene’s mind as he remembered 
how Nate had hindered him from attempting 
this very thing by his lugubrious and fateful 
narratives. That which made the matter more 
surprising, however, and seemed to place Nate 
definitely in the ranks of the Ananias club, was 
the fact that, in his transient view of the man 


LEONARDO DA VINCI 


277 


in the boat, it had struck him forcibly that it 
was none other than old Nate himself. The 
man had certainly borne an extraordinary re- 
semblance to that worthy, and unless the guide 
had a double, which was, of all things, most 
impossible, Keene felt that he could not be 
mistaken. 

When Keene arrived at the point where the 
Creek entered the gorge, he expected that he 
would find the old guide or at least, come upon 
his canoe, drawn upon the bank. Neither guide 
or canoe, however, was in evidence, and Keene 
decided that Nate had backed the boat into the 
woods. 

It was much easier going down the gorge 
than going up, and Arthur found himself in a 
quarter of an hour opposite and beneath that 
fissure in the cliffs which he had first come to 
when ascending the ravine. He stopped and 
gazed upward for some minutes, striving to 
identify it as the place of his meeting with the 
fair nymph who had so completely bewitched 
him, then, just as he was turning to continue his 
descent, he distinctly saw, at the very top of the 
cleft, something white, as if it were a handker- 
chief, fluttering to and fro. He was standing 
upon the top of a rounded rock and, so intent 
was he in watching this singular phenomenon, 
that he forgot to preserve his halancb, and was 
forced to leap sideways and into a pool of water, 
to keep from taking a header. When he again 
straightened himself and looked upward toward 


NATE SAWYER 


278 

the fissure, the handkerchief, if handkerchief it 
was, had vanished. 

For fully ten minutes he looked in vain for 
a reappearance of that white something; then 
he gave it up and went on his way down the 
gorge. When, however, he had proceeded some 
five hundred feet further, he perceived a small 
white object lying upon a rock in the very 
middle of the turbulent stream. It looked like 
a small square of linen. 

“The wind carried it out of her hand,” 
thought he. “Perhaps she dropped it purposely 
and the wind brought it here. Great Caesar! if 
it were only so. It must have sailed down while 
I was giving that exhibition of acrobatics. I’ll 
have to get it, if I swim for it. I’m about as 
wet as I can be anyway.” 

He proceeded at once to the undertaking; 
leaping from stone to stone, until a single stretch 
of swiftly rushing water, some eight feet in 
width, separated him from his goal. He was 
thinking what to do next, when, suddenly, he 
slipped from the wet and slimy boulder, upon 
which he stood, and plunged down into the 
creek up to his middle. Fortunately he landed 
on his feet and was able to keep his balance. 
It was “In for a penny, in for a pound.” So he 
braced himself against the weight of the torrent 
and, with a few steps, attained the coveted object. 

It was indeed a lady’s handkerchief, and a 
costly and dainty one at that, made of the finest 
cambric, with an insertion of lace around the 


LEONARDO DA VINCI 


279 


border. As he picked it up, he became aware 
of the faintest suspicion of a delicate and 
peculiar perfume, a perfume which had ap- 
pealed to his fancy more than once during the 
preceding three or four days. He took the two 
photographs of Cynthia from his pocket, folded 
the handkerchief about them and replaced them 
in his coat. He should certainly have put the 
package immediately over his heart, but his inside 
pocket was, as inside pockets always are, upon 
the right-hand side. 

It was eight o’clock in the evening when he 
returned to the Inn, and almost ten when he 
had changed his water-soaked garments to dry 
ones and had eaten supper. He was conscious 
of a delightful exaltation as he thought of 
Cynthia. She had signaled to him with her 
handkerchief and, it was just possible, that she 
had purposely dropped it; thus sending him, in 
a manner, a token or message. More trifling 
things than that will often raise a lover to the 
seventh Heaven of delight. 

Before he realized fairly what he was doing, 
he was strolling once more in the direction of 
the Marwood Mansion. When he gained the 
gate of the garden, he turned in, meaning to 
while away an hour or so in the pavilion, where 
he might dream without interruption and to his 
heart’s content, of the one girl. 

When he had come within fifty feet of the 
little summer house, he perceived that there was 
someone standing within it, and he stepped to 


28 o 


NATE SAWYER 


one side, in the shadow of a thick lilac bush, 
where he might see without being seen. The 
full moon had just arisen above the tree tops 
of the horizon, so that he had no difficulty in 
identifying the intruder. It was the fisherman 
of the glen, the young man whose profile he had 
seen upon the shade of the library window. 

He was engaged in the curious occupation 
of fixing something, which resembled a sheet 
of note paper, to one of the posts or columns of 
the pavilion. After he had accomplished this 
task, he raised a pair of eye glasses and regarded 
the paper intently for a minute or two, as if it 
were covered with writing and he were reading 
it. Then he walked briskly out of the garden, 
passing close to the spot where Keene was con- 
cealed. In a moment more, there came the 
sound of the exhaust of a motor and Arthur 
wondered where it had been hidden, and why 
he had not noticed it, as he came along the road 
by the garden fence. He was now filed with 
curiosity to know the secret of the young man’s 
strange proceeding, and, entering the summer 
house, he found a sheet of note paper pinned 
upon the inside of one of its pillars. It was 
covered neatly with writing in a small and care- 
ful hand, and though the dim light of the moon 
made it rather difficult to decipher, Arthur 
succeeded in making out the following: 

“I think of thee when morning sends 
Its first pale light across the skies; 

At noon-time, and when night descends, 


LEONARDO DA VINCI 


281 


Thine image steals before mine eyes. 

I think of times when thou didst love me, 

When softly comes the twilight hour, 

I see thee in each star above me. 

In every cloud, in every flower.” 

“And when I sleep, ’tis but to dream 

That thy dear form is hovering near. 

I hear thy voice, thine accents seem 
To whisper fondly in mine ear. 

I wake, the night is dark and lonely. 

Thy voice is mute, thy form has fled; 

The murmuring night winds whisper only 
Of vanished hopes, long past and dead.” 

‘‘This,” said Arthur, “is in the nature of a 
serenade, only, his inamorata being absent, he 
does not sing it, but writes it down and pins it 
to a post. This gentleman being here to-night 
is, for me, a most happy and auspicious augury. 
It was a most fortunate thing that I took it into 
my head to come this way. His love affair is 
with Valeska, and not with Cynthia. Ergo, it 
was Valeska, whose shadow I saw upon the cur- 
tain. If it were Cynthia, would he be here, 
tacking up serenades, while Cynthia was at the 
house in the glen? I see now that he is a very 
decent sort, whereas, before to-night, I thought 
him but little better than a pirate or highway 
robber. I hope he gets her, though his poem 
ends with an air of discouragement. Valeska 
is a girl whom any man might fall in love with. 
There is certainly something very lovely about 
her. She has a peculiar and indescribable 
charm, but still, she is not Cynthia. I am sorry 


202 


NATE SAWYER 


that I do not know the man’s name. I think 
of him, in an indefinite way, as the fisherman 
of the glen, the man of the shadow, or the poet 
and painter. I must invent a name for him. 
Michael Angelo was both an artist and a poet, 
and so was Leonardo da Vinci. I will call him 
Leonardo. 

Just then, Arthur, who had seated himself 
in one of the pavilion chairs, felt something rub 
against his trousers. He looked down and 
found that it was the cat, Thomas a Becket. 

“He knows that I love his mistress,” mused 
Arthur, “I am evidently persona grata with 
Tommy, and I can no longer say that he shows 
a preference for Leonardo.” 

Tommy looked up wistfully at Keene and 
miaowed, and Keene, interpreting the feline 
language correctly, took Tommy into his lap 
and made much of him. 


CHAPTER X 
In THE Forest of Arden 

Having arisen at six o’clock upon the follow- 
ing morning, Keene breakfasted, and at once 
set himself to the arduous task of getting through 
the eight or ten hours which still separated him 
from Cynthia. He felt that he could not await 
her coming in idleness. Something in the way 
of strenuous action was absolutely necessary. He 
therefore started out for another all day tramp, 
intending to ascend a mountain which raised 
its blue crest five or six miles to the northeast 
of the village. 

It was eleven o’clock in the forenoon when 
he arrived at its base, and it took him an hour 
to scale its rough gorge-seamed, pine-covered 
sides and arrive upon its summit. He had, 
however, provided himself with a small quantity 
of food and a large quantity of tobacco, he had 
the day before him, and, as the view which he 
now enjoyed was more grand and beautiful than 
anything of the kind which he had before im- 
agined, he felt amply repaid for his pains. 

The eminence from which he looked was 
probably two thousand feet in height, and the 
country lay spread before his view for fifteen 
or twenty miles in all directions. It seemed as 
if he were standing upon an apex in the center 

283 


284 


NATE SAWYER 


of a gigantic basin, this being the effect which 
one always experiences in viewing the surround- 
ing territory from a great elevation. All along 
the horizon on the north and east there seemed 
to stretch a continuous chain of blue, forest- 
covered mountains, broken here and there by 
some higher peak or ridge, which raised its hazy 
top above its fellows. He counted no less than 
a score of silvery ponds and lakes, set, like 
mirrors or like diamonds, deep down among the 
shaggy forest, and connected with each other, 
for the most part, by blue winding rivers and 
rivulets which sparkled here and there in the 
sunlight, as they emerged into the more open 
places of the woods. On the west and south, 
where the country was for the most part cleared, 
the landscape was checkered with squares of 
green pastures, of cornfields and yellow grain, 
and the whole scene was spread out before him 
so clearly and seemed so still and peaceful, with 
the distance, that it was like a painted landscape. 

The view of this wonderful panorama of the 
Adirondacks was not, however, the only induce- 
ment which led Keene to make the arduous 
ascent of the mountain. It was to one particular 
part of the country to which he bent his gaze. 
In fact, it seemed as if he had done this immense 
amount of climbing with the sole object of get- 
ting a comprehensive and unobstructed view of 
one locality, — namely, the vicinity of the great 
ravine of Otter Creek, called the Devil’s Gorge. 

He could not have found a better point from 


IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN 285 

which to observe it. The altitude upon which 
he stood was so much greater, that it could be 
plainly discerned running for a mile or two 
into the chain of hills which, in the west, formed 
the opposite wall of the immense basin in which 
he stood. It seemed to be distant from him 
about four miles and about the same distance 
from the village of Glendale, which could be 
plainly seen nestling down among the hills to 
the south. 

He had provided himself with a small but 
powerful field glass, and with its aid he now 
was certain that he perceived the cleft which 
marked the smaller gorge or glen, which had 
played such an important part in the history of 
the last four days, and which now, on account 
of the actual presence there of Cynthia, was 
rendered twice as interesting as before. It did 
not seem to run at right angles with the larger 
gorge, except for a little distance from its mouth, 
where it took a sudden turn to the south and 
extended for the rest of its length, as far as he 
could now see, almost parallel to the larger 
canon. 

In the event of any one seeking to discover 
it, by approaching through the forest, this made 
it a much more difficult undertaking. If it had 
extended at right angles from the larger gorge, 
one would only have to follow up the right-hand 
side of the latter, keeping several hundred feet 
from the edge of the cliffs, and he eventually 
would strike it. As it was, it was a very dif- 


286 


NATE SAWYER 


ferent matter. It was impossible to come within 
any reasonable distance of the precipice on the 
right-hand side, and Keene saw that he would 
have to rely on other indications, and leave the 
Devil’s Gorge entirely out of the question, in 
looking for it; always supposing that he in- 
tended such a thing; which was now, as he 
firmly said to himself, entirely distant from his 
mind. 

He could not help, however, making several 
observations of the way the land lay between 
the village and the wonderful glen, and calcu- 
lating therefrom the direction which it would 
be necessary to take in order to arrive at it; 
and the conclusion which he came to was that 
he would have a very reasonable chance of 
success. 

It was half past two in the afternoon when 
Keene set out to descend the mountain and re- 
turn to the village. He stepped steadily along 
upon the trail for an hour and a half and, pro- 
bably had accomplished half of the distance, 
when the sound of voices fell upon his ear: the 
voices of a man and of a woman. The voice of 
the woman was sweet and clear and aroused 
at once an answering echo in his heart. He now 
looked to the right, toward a spot perhaps a 
hundred feet distant, where there seemed to 
be a clearing in the forest, and beheld two per- 
sons, both of whom he knew, and whose appear- 
ance together filled him with unlimited 
astonishment. 


IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN 287 

One of them was the little huntress, attired 
in her short-skirted gray corduroy shooting dress 
and her small cap with the feather, and the 
other — no, he could hardly be deceived, was the 
old guide, Nate Sawyer. 

To assure himself to a certainty that he was 
not mistaken, he approached to within fifty feet 
of where they were standing. To do this, he 
had to circle a large clump of undergrowth, so 
that, for the moment, he lost sight of them. 
When he came within range of vision again, 
Nate, if it were really he, had disappeared, and 
Cynthia was coming toward him. 

She saw him when she was yet some way 
off, and did not seem to be at all astonished at 
meeting him. Nor was she at all vexed, as she 
was laughing when he joined her. She gave 
him her hand. Arthur noticed the cool softness 
of it, and perhaps held it a litle longer than was 
necessary. He looked at her face as if he were 
ravenously hungry and about to make a meal of 
her. She would have been a very simple and 
guileless girl, had she not known at once that 
he was head over heels in love with her. Most 
women know these things by intuition, without 
having had experience. Cynthia knew, though 
whether from intuition or experience, does not 
appear. 

“Do you know,” said he, “that you remind 
me of Rosalind in the forest of Arden?” 

“Do I,” glancing down at her frock and 
small russet shoes with a sorrowful air. “That 


288 


NATE SAWYER 


is too bad. But you see I am really not like 
Rosalind. I am wearing a skirt and it is not 
so very, very short, either.” 

“I meant that you looked to me as Rosalind 
looked to Orlando.” 

“But Orlando didn’t know that the person 
in boy’s clothing was Rosalind.” 

“That is all nonsense, and put in to help out 
the action of the play. Having once seen her 
face, and being in love with her, is it at all 
likely that he did not see through her disguise? 
Do you suppose I would not know you under 
similar circumstances?” 

“I can’t say, but I know that you will never 
have the chance to experiment.” 

“By the by, I saw Rosalind talking with 
Touchstone a few minutes ago.” 

“Oh, you mean the old guide. He is quite 
a character, and I often meet him in this neigh- 
borhood. Do you know the man?” 

“Yes, I know him well; that is, I am not 
mistaken in his identity. Was it not Nate 
Sawyer?” 

“I think that he told me once that his name 
was Nate or something of that kind, but I never 
knew his last name. He’s a curious old fellow, 
but very good-natured, and would go out 
of his way at any time to serve me. In fact, 
he has done me two or three small favors 
already, and we have got to be quite good 
friends.” 

“Did he have his bow with him?” 


IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN 289 


“His bow? Whatever do you mean? He had 
a rifle with him and nothing else.” 

“I mean his long bow. He usually has one 
with him and draws it with skill and frequency.” 

“There you do him foul injustice. I have 
known Nate, as you call him, for many months 
and I will stake my all upon his honor and 
truthfulness.” 

“Evidently,” said Keene with conviction, 
“we are not talking about the same man at all.” 

“Evidently,” said Cynthia. 

“Do you say that you often meet the man in 
this vicinity?” asked Arthur, after a pause. 

“Yes, perhaps a dozen times a month; but 
there’s nothing strange about that, is there?” 

Keene considered the matter for a moment. 
If it were indeed Nate whom he had just seen 
with the girl, it would be very strange indeed, 
for the greater part of the time he was busily 
plying his vocation upon the other side of the 
Adirondacks, seventy-five or a hundred miles 
away. No, the person whom he had just seen 
could not have been he, and yet, the man in the 
canoe had very much the appearance of the old 
guide, and it would be a strange matter if there 
were two men living of such a decidedly peculiar 
appearance. 

“Yes, it would be very strange. Miss Mar- 
wood, if it were the man of whom I was talking, 
and I am very much interested in knowing for 
a certainty if it was actually he. How did you 
come to fall in with him first?” 

19 


290 


NATE SAWYER 


Cynthia hesitated before answering. 

“I see no reason for not answering that ques- 
tion,” said she, after a moment, “it will make no 
difference in the long run.” “The fact is,” she 
continued, somewhat confused, “I first met the 
man near the waterfall at the head of the glen; 
the point where you came out of the ravine, 
after stopping for the night at the house in the 
stone-quarry. He had discovered the secret 
which I had to lay bare to you. I was ignorant 
of how much he knew, but I had to make friends 
with him and take him, to a certain extent, into 
my confidence. I had to tell him things” — here 
she hesitated, — “which I did not tell you. 
When you were here of course, I had no know- 
ledge of your being such a paragon of honor 
and fidelity.” 

She gave Keene a mischievous glance from 
her dark eyes, as he bowed low in acknowledg- 
ment of the compliment. 

“That was months ago. I had no claim upon 
him whatever, but he has been most loyal and 
faithful, and I regard him now as a friend 
whom, if necessary, I can trust implicitly. 

“I am getting horribly jealous of the old 
chap,” said Arthur. “Isn’t there some one else 
nearer by, whom you can trust and rely upon 
and all that sort of thing? I am a candidate for 
just such a position.” 

“How are your references from your last 
place?” she asked maliciously, then she changed 
the subject, and asked with an imperious tone: 


IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN 291 

“Where have you been, sir, since I last saw 
you?” 

“I have been to New York.” 

“But why did you leave so abruptly?” 

“I left because my remaining any longer 
would have been dangerous for my peace of 
mind.” 

“Valeska is certainly a charming and 
beautiful girl and I do not wonder that you 
felt that way about her.” 

“It wasn’t Valeska.” 

“A number of young men have gone dis- 
tracted on her account.” 

“It wasn’t Valeska.” 

“If that was the reason for your going away, 
what was the reason for your coming back so 
soon?” 

“The same thing that took me away brought 
me back.” 

“I suppose you mean the train.” 

“No, I came back because I couldn’t stay 
away.” 

“Well, I hope you bought an excursion 
ticket. I saw by a poster in the railroad station 
that they were selling two day excursions to New 
York and return for one and one half the regular 
fare. You were only gone two days and I love 
to see a young man save his money.” 

“How do you know that I was only away for 
two days?” 

“Because I saw you yesterday afternoon.” 

“Where was I when you saw me?” 


292 


NATE SAWYER 


“You were in the Devil’s Gorge, standing 
upon a stone and looking up into the heavens.” 

“Then what?” 

“Then you gave a spring and landed in a 
pool of water. I thought you were practising 
some kind of athletic exercise. It was certainly 
very amusing.” 

“Then it was you who waved the handker- 
chief to me from the top of the cliff?” 

“You conceited fellow. I was dusting off 
my jacket with it, when the wind carried it away. 
By the by, what was it that you wrapped up so 
carefully in the handkerchief?” 

“Oh, some small trifles, which I value quite 
highly.” 

“I saw what they were. They were two 
cabinet-sized photographs.” 

“You have remarkably good eye sight to see 
that at a distance of five hundred feet.” 

“Whose pictures were they?” 

“The pictures of a girl.” 

“Both of the same girl?” 

“Yes, the same girl.” 

“Any relative, or perhaps she is your 
fiancee?” 

“I wish she were.” 

“How long have you known her?” 

“Only a few days.” 

“I suppose she gave them to you.” 

“No, I stole them, well, it amounts to the 
same thing. I was walking along Fifth Avenue 
and chanced to see them in Falconi’s show win- 


IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN 293 

dow. Then I went in and succeeded in 
corrupting one of the clerks or attendants and 
so brought them away with me.” 

“That was a very disreputable thing to do. 
How could you do it?” 

“Because I was frightfully in love with the 
girl, and all is fair in love and war.” 

“And yet you have only known her a few 
days. Such love as that soon cools.” 

“Mine doesn’t cool. Every time I see her 
it increases amazingly. Besides that it grows 
wonderfully between times.” 

“The girl must be a paragon of perfection. 
Would you mind telling me who she is?” 

“I wouldn’t mind, but I am not absolutely 
certain what her name is.” 

“What, you do not know the girl’s name?” 

“Not really and truly. You see, I supposed 
that her name was so and so, and, when I looked 
at the backs of the pictures, I found there a name 
which I supposed was that of her cousin.” 

“Still, I suppose that you are now reasonably 
sure of her name?” 

“Yes, Cynthia, I think that I am.” 

“Do you know what you called me then?” 

“Of course I do. I haven’t made a mistake, 
have I? Isn’t that your name?” 

“Yes, that is my name. I may as well own 
up to it. But are you in the habit of addressing 
young ladies by their first names after you have 
known them for three or four days?” 

“No, I am not, but this is different. My 


294 


NATE SAWYER 


excuse for doing it is the same as my excuse for 
getting possession of the pictures. But Cynthia, 
tell me, why did you and your cousin mystify 
me by masquerading under the wrong names?” 

“There you go again. You are certainly a 
very bold person, and, were I to serve you right, 
I would not answer your question. However, 
I will be good and tell you this much : There 
was a proper and substantial reason for it. More 
I cannot tell you now, but you will probably 
know in time.” 

Her eyes now lost their mocking look, the 
smile disappeared from her pretty face and she 
became, all at once, pensive and troubled. 

“I must tell you,” said she, “that I am aw- 
fully worried just now about something which 
I heard from that old guide. He has certainly 
constituted himself my guardian angel. Why 
he takes such an interest in me I do not know. 
If you see to-night, that my wits have gone wool- 
gathering and that I seem to have a fit of the 
blues, you will know the reason and make 
allowances.” 

“But I do not know the reason, Cynthia, 
dear. Can you not tell me, and let me do the 
worrying? I am great at worrying, that is to 
say, for other people. Tell me then what 
troubles you and let me attend to it”. 

“No, you foolish fellow, I can’t tell you and, 
more than that, if I should tell you, you could 
not help matters any.” 

She smiled at him, showing the dimple in 


IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN 295 

her cheek, but, a moment afterward, it seemed 
to him that her dark eyes were unduly moist, 
as if the tears had gathered there. His heart 
was filled with conflicting emotions, love, doubt, 
uncertainty and jealousy. He could easily see 
that his fair companion was filled with sadness, 
and he would have given all that he possessed 
to remove the cause of her woe. 

It was nearly six o’clock in the evening. 

They had been walking through the forest 
during their conversation, and they had now 
come to a point a short way above the mill, 
which stood a quarter of a mile above the 
village. 

“I do not wish to pass the mill and traverse 
the village just now,” said she, “I always take 
another path when I come from — you know 
where. This path is over to the right. So I 
will leave you here. I suppose you will wish 
to go to the Inn, but be sure to come up to 
the house to-night at eight o’clock, as I want 
you to go with me to the station to meet Valeska.” 

Keene promised with unnecessary vehem- 
ence. He watched her trim form as she tripped 
along the path, until, at length, she vanished 
over a slight eminence. 

“The dear girl,” he soliloquized, “there is 
something on her mind. I wish I knew what it 
was. Damn, I would like to smash the person 
or persons who are the cause of it. She never 
asked me for the photographs or the handker- 
chief. I couldn’t have given them up anyway, 


296 NATE SAWYER 

but she was awfully sweet and good about it. 

Cynthia, when she had gained her chamber, 
flung herself into an easy chair by the window. 
She clasped her hands over her bosom, and 
gazed straight before her with an ecstatic look 
of bliss in her eyes. 


CHAPTER XI 
The Cruise of the Lorelei 

Keene arrived at the Marwood Mansion 
promptly at eight o’clock, and found the tour- 
ing car drawn up in front of the porch. As 
the maid opened the door for him, Cynthia came 
tripping down the stairway, fully attired for the 
short run to the railway station. She took her 
place at the steering wheel, Arthur cranked the 
engine and stepped into the car beside her. This 
time there was no objection. She even wel- 
comed him to the seat next her with a smile. 

^‘William the Despot,” said she, “has returned 
from the city, with that cog or pinion, whatever 
it was that he went after, and has kindly per- 
mitted me to use the car. He even offered to 
drive, but, as I saw that he had brought some- 
thing else with him from town besides the cog, 
I thought it wiser to drive myself.” 

In a few minutes they arrived at the station. 
When the train came in, which was but a mo- 
ment later, Arthur helped Valeska down, and 
the two girls fell into each other’s arms and 
kissed as if they had been separated for a year. 
Valeska now turned and spoke to Keene: 

“How do you do, Mr. Keene. I thought 
that you were in New York. I am very glad 
that you have returned.” 


297 


298 


NATE SAWYER 


Arthur answered her, and, in doing so, ad- 
dressed her by name. She turned to Cynthia, 
with a questioning look. 

“Yes, he knows,” said Cynthia. “It is all 
right though.” 

When they were seated in the library and 
Valeska was nibbling a sandwich and sipping a 
cup of tea, she turned to Cynthia and said slowly: 

“Featherstone was on the train to-night.” 

Cynthia made it seem by her manner that 
this announcement was most unwelcome. 

“Oh, dear, is that so? Did he try to sit with 
you?” 

“No, I gave him no chance.” 

On the few occasions when Valeska roused 
herself to speech, she used as few words as pos- 
sible. She would have made the ideal wife, in 
the opinion of many men. 

“Tell me, Val dear, how did you manage 
with him.” 

“When he entered my car he found me 
asleep, with my feet upon the only vacant chair 
near me.” 

“Mr. Featherstone,” said Keene, “does not 
seem to be especially popular in the present 
assemblage. May I ask who the gentleman is?” 

“He is an agent or superintendent for my 
uncle,” answered Cynthia. “An English young 
man who has, I firmly believe, left his country 
for his country’s good. He is evidently well 
bred and, in fact, he boasts that he is the rightful 
heir to a barony, or a baronetcy, I do not re- 


THE CRUISE OF THE LORELEI 299 

member which. At such times he calls himself 
Featherstonehaugh. He went away from here 
several weeks ago and I am very, very sorry to 
hear that he has come back. He drinks and 
does other nefarious things, and he is a cad, a 
bounder and a beast. Now you know all about 
him.” 

“Your description is so exact, concise and to 
the point, that I certainly know a lot about him. 
I can see him in my mind’s eye bounding and 
bounding like a kangaroo. But, tell me, why 
should you put up with him at all?” 

“Because he comes here often on business, 
more often, I think, than is necessary. Uncle 
Stephen had introduced him to us and has even 
had him to dinner. Uncle says that we exag- 
gerate his shortcomings and that he is no worse 
than the average young man. I even think that 
the wretch would make love to us if we allowed 
him to.” 

“Can you always keep men from making love 
to you, when you wish?” asked Arthur 
innocently. 

Cynthia was about to answer, when it came 
to her that there might be something personal 
in his question. Instead of speaking-, she smiled 
and turned away. 

“I am not afraid of his making love to me,” 
said Valeska. “Cynthia is the one whom he 
adores.” 

“That is partly the truth,” said Cynthia. “I 
own to the unenviable distinction of being the 


300 


NATE SAWYER 


favorite. I am put to my wits’ end to avoid him ; 
so that sometimes, like Marianna, T am a-weary, 
and wish that I were dead.’ ” 

Arthur said nothing, but his teeth came to- 
gether, his jaws became rigid, and his fists were 
clenched until the nails hurt him. As Valeska 
was evidently fatigued by her journey, he now 
arose to go ; it being arranged that he and the two 
girls should take the motor boat upon the mor- 
row, and sail down the river; their destination 
being left to the whim of the moment. Keene 
voted that they go in quest of the golden fleece. 
Cynthia was for Utopia, and Valeska thought 
that she would be satisfied with the Lotus Islands. 

When Keene and the girls were standing in 
the hallway previous to his taking his departure, 
he noticed, though not for the first time, an old- 
fashioned spinning wheel which stood upon the 
landing, half way up the stair. It was a curious 
relic of the past, and very different from others 
which he had seen, as it had two pirns instead 
of one, and the platform or bench was level, 
instead of being tilted to an angle of twenty or 
thirty degrees, as in other spinning wheels. He 
asked to inspect it, and Cynthia took him up to 
the landing, and explained its peculiarities and 
its modus operandi. 

“It is well worth looking at,” said she. 
“There is none other like it, and it has a history, 
and its history, like that of the old clock on the 
stair, has been told in verse. Would you like 
to hear it?” 


THE CRUISE OF THE LORELEI 301 

Arthur was loath to leave the girl, and wel- 
comed the delay which the recital of the poem 
would bring about. 

“I would like nothing better,” said he. 

‘‘Valeska, you recite it to him,” said Cynthia. 

They now went back into the drawing room. 
Valeska took a book from the table, and, draw- 
ing from it a leaf of faded note paper, read as 
follows : 


The Old Spinning-Wheel 

“Through the intricate maze of its pulleys and wheels, 

And its oaken frame, a vision steals 

Of the long gone years, of the hands that are still. 

And the elm-shaded house at the foot of the hill. 

Where the child, round-cheeked and wond’ring-eyed. 
Watched the old wheel buzz at the ingleside. 

With a sound like a far-off muffled drum. 

In its clickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum. 

“Years come and go; on the porch it stands. 

And the pirns fly round ’neath a fair girl’s hands; 

She watches the sunset’s fading rays. 

With a far-off, girlish, fanciful gaze 
Till the rose steals into her dimpled cheek. 

And the garrulous spinning-wheel seems to speak 
Her foolish thoughts to Christendom 
With its clickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum. 

“Still time speeds on; ’tis a winter’s night. 

The hearth fire is circled with faces bright. 

There is laughter and jest, and the storm, in vain. 
Beats on the door and the frosted pane. 

And the wheel spins round with a measured rhyme. 
Like a quaint refrain of the old, glad time, 


302 


NATE SAWYER 


With a presage of sorrowful days to come; 

In its clickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum. 

“Its voice oft brought the sick child rest, 

And lightened many a weary breast; 

Beneath its song the whispered word 
And kiss of lovers passed unheard. 

If it could speak, that strange old wheel 
What wonderful secrets it would reveal ! 

What romance is hid in the weary sum 
Of its clickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum. 

“It had its influence and its share 
In every joy and every care; 

Fast, fast it flew, yet with swifter rate. 

Spun round and round, the wheel of fate. 

They fashioned out of its woven thread 

The dress of the bride and the sheet for the dead. 

And the wheel went round, though the heart grew numb. 
With a clickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum. 

“All are vanished and all are still. 

And the spinning-wheel by the clattering mill 
Has been left behind with the primitive days 
Of homelier toil and more honest ways; 

Yet, oft through the night, and out of the gloom 
And the gathered dust of the lumber room. 

Its song, like a ghost’s voice, seems to come. 

With its clickety, whir-r, whir-r, hum.” 

When Keene had returned to the hotel, and 
was passing through the Inn office or reading 
room, on his way to his chamber, he had his 
first glimpse of Featherstone. He was a young 
man of twenty-eight or thirty, blue-eyed and 
with a long, silken yellow moustache. He had 
evidently been a handsome man in his early 


THE CRUISE OF THE LORELEI 303 

youth, but now his eyes were bloodshot, his skin 
pasty, and he had generally an air of dissipation 
and degeneracy. Keene was inclined to stop 
then and there and chastise him, but thought 
better of it. 

When Keene called at the house the next 
morning, Valeska and Cynthia appeared clad 
in yachting costumes, of trim and sailor-like fit 
and design; the one being of blue and red, and 
the other of white and blue. As they now started 
upon their way to the boat house, which stood 
upon the banks of the river, Valeska tarried 
upon the porch to give some final directions to 
the maid; so that Arthur and Cynthia were left 
alone for a moment. 

“I am still thinking of the old spinning- 
wheel in the hall,” said Keene. never have 
seen anything so curious and ancient.” 

“It has been in our family for over a hundred 
years,” said Cynthia. 

“May I ask the name of the author of the 
poem or legend which Valeska recited?” 

“It was written by a friend, who wishes to 
remain anonymous.” 

“Did this same friend compose the poem of 
the Haunted House?” 

Cynthia looked at him for a moment, and 
hesitated. 

“Yes,” said she finally. 

“Leonardo must be a man of various accom- 
plishments.” 

Keene spoke thoughtlessly. He had invented 


304 


NATE SAWYER 


this name himself, in order to have a tangible 
designation for the young man whom he had 
seen in the summer house. He was vexed at 
having made such a blunder, and expected, 
naturally, that Cynthia would be mystified and 
puzzled by this remark. Instead of being so, 
however, she answered, in a matter-of-fact way: 

“They were not written by him. He doesn’t 
know a rhymed quatrain from blank verse.” 

It is putting it mildly to say that Arthur was 
astonished. So there really was a Leonardo. 
In inventing the name, he had curiously blun- 
dered upon the name of an acquaintance of the 
girls. Who and what was he? What a remark- 
able coincidence! Here was another mystery in 
this more than mysterious family of the 
Marwoods. 

He would have liked to ask about this 
Leonardo, but Cynthia had treated the subject 
of the poems with a certain reserve and he felt 
that he was upon dangerous ground and forbore 
to question her further. 

When they had arrived at the boat house, 
and had opened the doors and got the motor 
boat out upon the river, Keene noticed that her 
name, in brass letters upon the bow, was The 
Lorelei. He spoke of this to the girls and added : 

“Ich weiss nicht vas soil es bedeuten, 

Dass Ich so traurig bin.” 

“I was waiting for you to say that,” said 
Cynthia, who was sitting upon the front deck, 
and pushing the boat away from the dock with 


THE CRUISE OF THE LORELEI 305 

a pike-pole. ^^Almost every one does, when he 
first remarks the name. It is astonishing how 
many people have read Heine’s poem. It must 
have been a sine qua non at all preparatory 
schools.” 

“There is another stanza of it which I might 
also quote with great propriety,” said Arthur as 
he gazed admiringly at the graceful girl, “and 
that is this : 

“Die schoenste Jungfrau sitzet 
Dort oben wunderbar.” 

“I see that you have committed the whole 
poem to memory,” answered Cynthia. 

The motor boat Lorelei was a craft about 
forty feet in length, with a narrow, racing hull, 
and a stern shaped like a torpedo boat. She had 
a standing, canopy top, and her engine was of 
three cylinders and placed near the stern. In 
the cockpit were several wickerwork cushioned 
chairs and she combined all the essentials of 
comfort with a speed of fifteen or sixteen miles 
an hour. 

Cynthia took the steering wheel, Keene threw 
over the balance wheel of the engine and the boat 
started with a rush. Valeska reclined luxur- 
iously in her favorite chair, into which she had 
arranged some extra pillows. Her face had a 
look of dreamy and charming contentment, and 
she seemed the picture and embodiment of sweet- 
ness and amiability. 

The Lorelei sped forward with the swiftness 
of an arrow; throwing off to either side a cas- 

20 


NATE SAWYER 


306 

cade of spray from her sharp cutwater, and 
sending a long, unbroken ridge or wave of water 
diagonally behind to both shores, where they 
created a turbulent swaying and bending among 
the reeds and water grasses. A constantly 
changing and beautiful panorama flew back on 
either side of them; cornfields and meadows 
and pastures with grazing cows, and ploughed 
lands and orchards. Now and then they would 
pass through dark, mystic-looking forests, filled 
with swamps and fallen trees, and here and there 
they would come to a solitary farm house, and 
a dog would run forth and bark at them, or 
children would pause in their play and gaze at 
them, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Sometimes, 
the river would seem to come to an end a short 
distance ahead of them. Then, just as they 
thought to run into a barrier of bank and trees, 
they would turn sharply to the left or right, 
and a new vista would open out before them. 

It was a delightful day. A few white, fleecy 
clouds floated slowly across the soft blue sky; 
the air, as it blew into their faces, was crisp and 
fresh and cool. Each shifting of the scenery 
contained a new interest, and all these things, 
together with the sense of power, the swiftness 
of motion, the joyous freedom of it, made life 
seem worth living. Most of those who have 
tried both will say that a sail in a fast motor 
boat is worth more than all the automobile runs 
that were ever made. 

At noon they made the Lorelei fast to a great. 


THE CRUISE OF THE LORELEI 307 

wide-spreading, elm tree which grew at the 
water’s edge, and Cynthia and Valeska, who had 
brought with them a well filled basket of pro- 
visions brought to light, from one of the lockers 
a collapsible table, and opened it up and spread 
upon it a delicate and dainty repast. There 
was ginger ale and apollinaris for the thirsty, 
and the food was fit for the palates of the gods. 
Keene, however, though he had never had a 
better appetite, for the most part of the time 
forgot to eat; being engaged in the pleasing 
occupation of looking at Cynthia’s face. A 
school girl of fourteen could have told how it 
was with him. Valeska, now and then, would 
turn away from them with a smile, one of those 
sweet and evanescent smiles which vanished 
about as quickly as it came. 

It was well in the afternoon when they began 
the return voyage. Arthur noted the fact that 
now and then the river was quite shallow, and 
with a bottom of jagged boulders, over which 
they glided with a very small margin of safety. 

‘‘Aren’t you ever afraid of striking upon the 
rocks?” he asked. 

“Not at all,” answered Cynthia. “I know 
every rock in the river, for the simple reason 
that I have hit them all at one time or another. 
I can say, however, with just pride, that I never 
have hit the same rock twice. Some malevolent 
persons say that I try to take the boat cross lots. 
I will leave it to you if that is true.” 

“What happens when you hit a rock?” 


308 NATE SAWYER 

“All kinds of things. It knocks the brass 
blades from the propeller wheel; the engine 
commences to race, and sometimes it bends the 
shaft out of true. When this happens near a 
bridge, it is an easy matter to repair the damage. 
We have a powerful differential pulley block 
in one of the lockers, which we hook on to the 
bridge, so that we can hoist the stern of the 
boat out of water, and screw a new pair of 
blades into the hub of the propeller. Some 
people say that we should take a bridge along 
with us. All these ill-natured remarks I, of 
course, treat with the lady-like scorn which they 
deserve.” 

They arrived at the boat house without mis- 
hap and with ample time in which to dress for 
dinner. That night they sat again until a late 
hour in the summer house of the garden. 
Valeska had brought a guitar from the house, 
and played upon it, in a charming manner, a 
number of quaint Spanish and Mexican seren- 
ades and dances. She also accompanied Cynthia, 
who sang, in a low, sweet, plaintive tone, a little 
love song, in which the moon played an im- 
portant part. 

Filled with the witchery of the soft, summer 
night, and the words of the music, and the pres- 
ence of the adored one, Arthur found that, 
somehow, he was holding Cynthia’s hand, which 
was resting upon the arm of her chair. The 
cool, firm softness of it sent a delightful thrill 
through him, but, after a moment, she withdrew 


THE CRUISE OF THE LORELEI 309 

it, though there was no apparent haste in the 
action. 

When Keene presented himself, the follow- 
ing morning, at the Marwood house, he was 
informed by the maid that Miss Valeska was 
indisposed and lying down, and that Miss 
Cynthia had gone from home and would not 
return until the next day. 

The young man turned away from the door, 
filled with astonishment, and horribly vexed by 
this stroke of misfortune. 

“This makes three times in a week,’’ he 
mused, “that she has gone to the house in the 
glen. Why could she not have told me of her 
intention? It was certainly most unkind of her. 
There must be some powerful attraction there, 
or possibly they may have some nefarious hold 
upon her. I hate the thought of either.” 

A serious problem confronted him: How 
was he to pass the time until her return. He 
longed for the sight of her. Her presence had 
become indispensable to him. He finally made 
up his mind to go fishing. There was a likely 
trout stream which emptied into Otter Creek 
about two miles above the village and which 
came from somewhere in the hills to the north- 
east. Its head waters must lie within a mile of 
the entrance to the old stone quarry. Perhaps 
this fact decided him in his choice of fishing 
grounds. He would be comparatively near her. 
He went to the Inn, drew on a pair of rubber 
boots which came to the thigh, provided himself 


310 


NATE SAWYER 


with the necessary accoutrements and, within 
the hour, was wading up the stream in question, 
and casting his fly ahead of him upon its 
waters. 

At one o’clock in the afternoon, having had 
indifferent luck, he came to where the brook 
widened out into a beautiful little lake, about 
a quarter of a mile in diameter, set like a mirror, 
deep down in the hollow formed by the hills. 
He went down the declivity to the shores of the 
pond, and, sitting upon a great log which lay 
half in and half out of the water, spent some 
time in contemplating it. The water was placid 
and clear as crystal; around it was an unbroken 
fringe or hedge of green forest, reproduced 
within the mirror-like surface of the water with 
an astonishing exactness. Fully half the surface 
of the lake was covered with the floor-like leaves 
of the water-lily, upon which walked a number 
of sand-pipers, tipping their tails up and down 
and uttering their plaintive and peculiar cry. 

All at once there was a crackling in the 
bushes to his right. The sound seemed to come 
from a sort of gulley which ran down between 
two hills to the lake. The noise continued for 
several seconds and aroused his curiosity to a 
high degree. He had fixed his eyes upon the 
locality from which the sounds proceeded, when 
suddenly, out from the underbrush, burst, like 
a meteor, a graceful and beautiful red deer, and 
ran into the waters almost before Keene realized 
what it was, swimming in a straight line and 


THE CRUISE OF THE LORELEI 31 1 

with extraordinary swiftness toward the other 
side of the lake. 

There came more crackling in the bushes, 
and out darted a small fox terrier dog, coming 
so close to the young man that he almost ran into 
him. He was about to follow the deer into the 
water, when suddenly, he saw Keene, and at once 
a great change came over him. It seemed as if 
he knew that he was breaking the game laws, 
for he stopped, his head and his tail went down, 
and he showed all the signs of shame and con- 
fusion. Arthur called him and he came at once, 
wagging his tail and looking upward with a sort 
of deprecating look which was laughable. 
Arthur examined his collar and found upon a 
brass plate the initials, “C. M.” It was un- 
doubtedly the dog for whom he had suggested 
the name of “Henry the Second.” 

Just then a shrill whistle sounded in the 
forest from the direction whence had come the 
deer and the dog. The terrier started off to 
retrace his steps, but at a short distance away 
paused and looked back at the man as if ex- 
pecting or wishing that he should follow him. 
It is unnecessary to say that Arthur accepted the 
invitation and immediately set off after his in- 
telligent and friendly guide. 

Ever and anon his new four-footed acquaint- 
ance would turn his head to see if the young man 
was coming along all right, and so they pro- 
ceeded for a furlong or two. The terrier now 
began to bound and wag his tail and to give 


312 


NATE SAWYER 


other manifestations of pleasure, and Keene, 
presently looking up, saw, a few rods beyond 
him, sitting upon the prone trunk of a great 
tree, the well known and enchanting figure of 
the votary and namesake of Diana, his Cynthia 
of the Woodland. 


CHAPTER XII 

Cynthia Resolves to Stay Single 

Her jaunty gray costume had now given 
place to a plainly cut frock of black material, 
which emphasized the ivory white of her neck, 
and she was sitting there, her chin upon her 
hand, in a thoughtful, preoccupied attitude. 
Her straw hat lay upon the trunk beside her, 
her dark, luxuriant hair was caught up and 
wound upon her head in a simple coil, and her 
pensive face seemed paler and sadder than 
when he had seen her last. 

She did not observe him at first, but was 
taken up with the dog, which ran to her and 
shoved its nose against her unoccupied hand. 
He was evidently not in the good graces of his 
mistress, for she struck him twice or thrice 
lightly upon the head, exclaiming as she did so: 

“There! take that and that! You would chase 
that poor deer, would you? I don’t like you 
any more. You are a bad boy.” 

The terrier immediately sat up and begged, 
with an appealing look in his eyes. 

“No, you are a bad boy, a bad boy.” 

The dog began to whine. 

“A bad, bad boy.” 

The terrier now gave utterance to a pro- 
longed howl of grief. 


314 


NATE SAWYER 


“No, you are a good boy, a good boy.” 

The animal at once fell upon all fours, and 
danced about and barked with delight. 

Then Cynthia looked up and caught sight 
of the young man. She did not seem to be 
greatly astonished, but nodded to him and made 
a place for him on the tree. Perhaps she had 
expected him, or at least imagined that he might 
come that way. The reason for her being in 
that spot, a mile or two away from the house 
where she was stopping, is not clearly apparent, 
but, possibly the theory already mentioned is 
the correct one. Keene sat down beside her, 
and she at once proceeded to strengthen this 
theory by remarking: 

“What a start you gave me. You are the last 
person I expected to meet here.” 

“I hardly hoped to meet you here, though 
I came as near to the forbidden ground as I 
dared. Now you might tell me why you de- 
parted so suddenly, and without preparing me 
for it.” 

She looked at him with a mocking sidelong 
glance, and the merest suggestion of a dimple. 

“I wished to avoid the pain of parting.” 

“You should have seen my despair when the 
maid told me this morning that you were gone.” 

“I suppose that Valeska did her best to 
alleviate your woe.” 

“I didn’t see Valeska. The maid told me 
that she was indisposed and lying down.” 

“It is very likely that she was lying down, 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


315 


but most unlikely that she was indisposed. That 
was probably invented by Sarah. Sarah is a 
most inventive person. Valeska was simply 
taking her beauty sleep. I am the only one she 
stands in awe of, and, when I am away, I suspect 
her of staying in bed every day until noon.” 

“Suppose,” said Keene, “that we now resume 
the conversation which we were having upon 
the day I found you talking with the guide.” 

“What conversation?” 

“The talk which we had about the girl of 
the photograph, and how I went away on 
account of her, and came back on account of her, 
and how much I cared for her, and so on, and 
so on.” 

“But I thought that the conversation was 
ended.” 

“No, it was only just begun. You see I mean 
to marry the girl and, in that case, the conver- 
sation will go on forever.” 

“But if the girl objects?” 

“Objects to the conversation?” 

“No, to marrying you.” 

“I shall marry her all the same.” 

“Perhaps you mean to knock the girl down 
with a club and carry her off, as they did in the 
good old prehistoric days.” 

“I shall not knock the girl down, but I may 
carry her off. I feel that way every time I see 
her. In fact, some such feeling is coming over 
me now.” 

“But what does the girl say about it?” 


3i6 


NATE SAWYER 


“Nothing definite as yet, but I hope for 
something decisive soon.” 

“Will you tell me when you find out?” 

“You will know about it without my telling 
you.” 

“How can I possibly know about it?” 

“Because you will be one of the two parties 
interested.” 

“Oh, I am the girl, am I? I never should have 
guessed it. All the same, it is very unfortunate.” 

“Why is it unfortunate, Cynthia?” 

“Because I have made up my mind never to 
marry.” 

“In one way, Cynthia, darling, that is good 
news. I was fearful of having a successful rival. 
If you are never going to marry, the successful 
rival is, of necessity, eliminated.” 

“Do you know what you have just called 
me? You have a large stock of assurance, sir. 
‘Cynthia, darling,’ the idea!” 

“I have some small amount of assurance, 
dearest, but I would like more, for instance, I 
would like to have you assure me, categorically, 
what I have only inferred from your assertion 
that you would never marry; namely: that there 
is no other man.” 

Cynthia looked at him demurely for a 
moment. 

“No, you foolish boy, there never has been 
another man; that is to say, there never has 
been a man.” 

“Then you will marry me?” 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


317 

Cynthia laughed merrily. 

“Haven’t I just told you that I am never 
going to marry?” 

“But if you should change your mind?” 

“I will not change my mind. It is 
impossible.” 

She became grave at this, and seemed lost in 
thought. That her thoughts were not of the 
pleasantest was shown by her downcast eyes and 
the sad expression of her mouth. 

“No, but Cynthia sweetheart, let us suppose, 
merely suppose, that you did change your mind. 
In that case would you marry me?” 

“You would try the patience of an angel. 
I see that there is no stopping you. Well, if I 
ever did decide to marry, only such a con- 
tingency is impossible, it seems to me that you 
are a very unobjectionable person and that I 
might do worse. I must go now. I have stayed 
here too long already. I have been laughing 
and talking all kinds of nonsense with you, and 
you may suppose that I am outrageously gay and 
lighthearted, but I am not. The fact is that I 
feel horribly blue. You know I told you the 
other day that I had received bad news.” 

“But what is it, Cynthia? Tell me, and let 
me stand between you and this misfortune, 
whatever it is.” 

“No, I cannot tell you. The very nature of 
it keeps me from telling you. Ah, well ! perhaps 
it will work out right in the end. Now I really 
must be going.” 


NATE SAWYER 


318 

“But when am I to see you again, Cynthia 
sweetheart? Can you not meet me here to- 
morrow?” 

“Oh, I could not think of such a thing. It 
would not do.” 

“Can I not go with you as far as the glen?” 

“No, I absolutely forbid you. You must not 
stir one step from the spot where you are stand- 
ing. This is such a delightful place that I hate 
to leave it. I very often come here at about this 
hour. Well, good-bye.” 

She held out her hand to him and, as he took 
it in his, and felt its firm and dainty coolness, 
and as he gazed into her lovely face and felt 
the magic of her eyes, he was seized with a 
momentary madness, and drew her toward him 
as if to kiss her. She snatched her hand away 
from him, however, and ran swiftly into the 
forest, with her dog at her heels. When she was 
almost out of sight, she turned and blew him a 
kiss and then vanished from sight. 

Keene had gone forward a few paces into 
the forest, to keep the girl in sight as long as 
possible. He could not sufficiently admire her 
graceful, swaying figure, or the perfect ease 
with which she walked. The goddess Diana, 
for whom she was named, could never have 
stepped as prettily. ''Vera incessu patuit Dea/' 
thought he. 

He now turned to retrace his steps, and saw 
the old guide, Nate Sawyer, sitting upon the 
very log upon which Cynthia and he had rested. 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


319 


He was startled, and not without reason, at this 
sudden apparition. 

“Hullo, Nate,” he exclaimed. “Where in 
thunder did you come from, and what are you 
doing here?” 

“Oh, I come from nowhere in partikler and 
I was wanderin’ around, headed for the same 
place. I found yew and the young lady conver- 
sin’ and thinkin’ it might be bad manners to 
break in on ye, I hung around till she was gone. 
Fact is, I wanted to hev a talk with ye.” 

“All right, Nate. I have something to say 
to you also. When I left you a week or so ago, 
you said that you had important business at 
home. You were in such a hurry that you 
refused to guide me down through the gorge. 
In the last few days I have seen you three times 
in this locality. You must have made awfully 
quick time to get home and return here in four 
days. It was just four days after you left me 
that I saw you coming down Otter Creek in a 
canoe.” 

“Naw, it couldn’t ’a’ been me. Yew must 
a been mistaken.” 

“Well, the man I saw was as like you as one 
pea is like another. Come now, Nate, own up; 
otherwise I will set you down as an unprincipled 
prevaricator.” 

“Waal, I might as well own up to it first as 
last, seein’ as yew’ve got me dead to rights. But 
what if ye did see me in that there canoe? 
What’s there uncommon in that?” 


320 


NATE SAWYER 


‘‘You told me that coming down the creek 
in a boat was impossible, and that several men 
had lost their lives trying it.” 

“Yaas, and I told yew the truth. Cornin’ 
down Otter Creek in a boat is a awful risky 
thing. No one has ever done it and lived to tell 
on it, exceptin’ myself. There’s only one man can 
do it and I’m that man. To tell the truth,” here 
he dropped his voice and looked around him as 
if to see if he were overheard. “I wuz in a leetle 
bit of a hurry that day, and sometimes I come 
that way; specially when I’m put to it fer time. 
It takes me down from the last lake to the gorge, 
a matter of twelve miles, in about an hour, in- 
stead of a four hour march through the woods.” 

“Yaas,” added the old man, in his nasal, 
drawling voice, after an interval of a minute, 
which he spent in filling and lighting his corn 
cob pipe. “It’s a risky thing to dew, but not 
half as risky as somethin’ that ye tried to dew 
yerself several days ago. I told ye to take the 
left hand side of the gorge, on your way to 
Glendale and, instead of that, yew went to work 
and started down the right-hand side.” 

“What side of the gorge are we on now?” 
asked Arthur. 

“On the right-hand side of course. Any 
fool’d know that.” 

“It may be the right-hand side as you go up, 
but it would certainly be the left-hand side com- 
ing down, and that is why I tried to come down 
upon this side.” 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


321 


“No sir! not by a long shot. Ef it’s the right- 
hand side, it’s the right-hand side and nothin’ 
can change it. How could it be one side one 
day and another side another day? That’s what 
I’d like to know.” 

“Well, Nate, we won’t argue about the 
matter. If you say that this side of the gorge 
is the right-hand side, the right-hand side it is. 
I want to tell you something. When I was on 
my way down, I met and had a talk with the 
gray ghost you were telling me of.” 

“Yaas, I see you did,” answered the old man, 
dryly. 

“What’s more, instead of it’s bringing me 
bad luck, I have had nothing but good luck 
ever since.” 

“There’s time yet,” said Nate, in a somber 
tone. “None of us knows what’s goin to happen 
to us from one day to the other.” 

“Furthermore,” continued Keene, “that same 
night, I saw the ghost lights, the same lights 
which you saw just before you tumbled through 
the roof of your shack upon the sleeping form 
of Shorty McCabe. While I was watching the 
light, I also saw an answering light in the woods 
upon the other side of the gorge. What do you 
know about that?” 

The old guide looked suddenly up at Keene, 
with a somewhat startled expression. 

“What should I know about it?” said he. 

“Nevertheless, I think that you could tell me 
something about it, if you wished to.” 

31 


322 


NATE SAWYER 


Nate ruminated for a moment before he 
spoke. When he did speak, it was of something 
which seemed quite irrelevant. 

“Do ye happen to know of a man who hangs 
out at Wilkinson’s tavern in the village, named 
Featherstone?” 

“Yes, I know about him and have seen him. 
I have heard nothing to his credit and his 
appearance certainly coincides with his repu- 
tation.” 

“Waal, that man Featherstone is the meanest 
cur in these five counties.” 

“I believe you, and I have heard that he 
annoys Miss Cynthia, the lady I was just talking 
with. Has he been doing anything of the kind 
lately?’” 

“Speakin’ of mean men minds me of old Dan 
Ferguson. D’l ever tell ye of old Ferguson and 
his wife?” 

“No, you never did, but let that go until some 
other day. I want to hear about Featherstone.” 

“All in good time. We got lots of time, and 
I jest got to tell ye that story.” 

Keene coming to the conclusion that the 
sooner Nate had the story off his mind, the sooner 
his anxiety about Featherstone would be allayed, 
resigned himself to the inevitable and the old 
guide began his yarn. 

“Waal, old Dan Ferguson and Miss Fergu- 
son, his wife, lived in a poor kind of a shack, 
down near Pisceo Lake, about three mile from 
Morehouseville. Dan had two wooden legs, 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


323 


those old-fashioned peg legs, with straps to em; 
he hevin’ had his legs froze one winter, years 
before, and ampetated, count of gettin’ boozed 
and goin’ to sleep in the snow. Cordin’ to old 
Dan, though, he lost them legs of his’n fightin’ 
pirates and sech like down on the Spanish Main, 
wherever that is. When he got three or four 
drinks into him, down at the tavern at More- 
houseville, he used to swear horrible and go on 
somethin’ amazin’ about the fightin’ he hed been 
into, where the decks of the ships was piled 
waist high with corpses, and the scuppers wuz 
runnin’ with blood. He told them stories so 
often, he ended up by believin’ em himself, and 
he wuz always the main guy too, leadin’ his 
band of followers and makin’ most of that 
bloodshed with his own good sword. The old 
residents of the place, howsomever, would tell 
ye that Dan Ferguson had never been so far 
away from Morehouseville, that he couldn’t hev 
walked hum by sundown. 

“Now, Miss Ferguson, old Dan’s wife wuz 
a fust-rate, pious old lady, or would hev been 
ef her husband had been anyways decent. She 
took in washin’ and did some sewin’ for the few 
neighbors thereabouts, and did her best to keep 
the old man in clothes and vittles and, most of 
all, to keep him sober. It wa’nt much use though, 
for, now and then, he’d get hold of the money 
she’d earned, and peg along down to the tavern, 
where he’d stop till he’d spent the last cent in 
likker, and even pawned the shirt offen his back. 


324 


NATE SAWYER 


This natchully caused no end of wranglin’ tween 
him and his wife. Miss Ferguson had a sharp 
tongue, and people goin’ by their cabin could 
hear em at it all hours of the day and night.” 

“Waal, I was down at the tavern at More- 
houseville, one mornin’, sittin’ in the bar room, 
along with half a dozen guides; when the door 
opened and Dan Ferguson kem peggin’ into the 
room. He kem up to us, grinnin’ all over and 
was as chipper as ye please, and pulled a set of 
teeth outen his pocket, the same what I hed given 
her, and he says, says he: 

“I got up this mornin’ before the old woman 
was awake, and stole them out from under her 
piller. Now, damn her, let her bite.” 

“Waal, I was that riled, that I wanted to 
knock the old cuss down, and I would hev, ef it 
wan’t fer his wooden legs, but I got up and I 
says, says I : 

“That’s a mighty low down thing what you 
done. No gentleman would do that to a lady. 
The last time I saw Miss Ferguson, she says to 
me: ^My husband is the meanest man that God 
ever let live;’ and now I believe her.” 

“Now, about three months arter that, it bein’ 
in the winter time, and a awful hard winter, 
I was up to Blue Mountain Lake, stayin’ the 
night with old Sam Partridge and his wife; 
she bein’ a sister of Miss Ferguson. Jest before 
supper time, we heard the ringin’ of sleigh bells, 
and a pair of bobs drives up to the door, and 
out gets Miss Ferguson. She hed come to stay 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


325 


fer a week, and bed fetched her trunk with her. 

‘‘But what about Dan’l?” asked Miss 
Partridge, after she hed kissed her sister, and 
made her warm and comfortable before the fire. 
“Won’t he be carryin’ on somethin’ dreadful, 
while you’re away?” 

“Not so’s you’d notice it, Mirandy. I sawed 
a lot of cord wood, and left enough vittles in 
the house fer a week, so’s he’ll be as snug as a 
bug in a rug.” 

“Laws sakes! I should think you’d be 
worritin’ about him all the same. Supposin’ 
he should go and git tanked up and go to sleep 
in the snow on his way home, and git froze to 
death.” 

“I ain’t worritin’ enny about him. He’s 
sittin’ at this blessed moment, before a good cord 
wood fire, smokin’ a pipe peaceable and readin’ 
‘Saints Rest’ and ‘Steps Heavenward.” 

“But what’s to hinder him, ef he takes it into 
his head to go to Morehouseville and fill up with 
likker.” 

“I’ll show you what’s to hinder him,” says 
Miss Ferguson. 

Then she takes us over to her trunk and 
opens it, and there, in among her poor, faded, 
frazzled calicoes and what not, was both of old 
Dan Ferguson’s wooden legs.” 

“But, I was tellin’ ye about this man Feather- 
stone. Sometimes he calls himself Featherstone- 
haugh. Haw, haw! And he says as how he 
wuz descended from some of those English 


NATE SAWYER 


326 

Lords ye hear tell of. If so, he must hev des- 
cended quite a ways. He dresses like a 
gentleman, and a little way off, he looks like 
one, but that’s as near as he comes to it. Fer 
more’n six months now, he has been favorin’ 
this young lady with his attentions; in fact, he 
has fair pestered the girl to death. More than 
once I’ve hed to walk with her all the way from 
the glen to the village, she was that downright 
afraid of him. About ten days ago, I was pros- 
pectin’ around in the woods, near the glen, and 
I saw her cornin’ from the direction of the 
village. She didn’t see me, but took the ladder 
and went down out of sight behind the falls. 
Then, right on her heels, comes this man 
Featherstone. He cranes his neck over the cliff 
and pries about this way and that, and I saw 
immediate that he had followed her through 
the woods, and hed discovered her secret. That 
was what I wuz tellin’ her the day yew saw 
us talkin’. That is what the girl is worritin’ 
about, and, ef ye knew what it meant to her, 
as I dew, yew wouldn’t wonder at her 
worritin’.” 

“What’s the matter with throwing him over 
the cliff?” asked Keene. 

“Nothin’ at all, and I hope ye dew it. Now, 
what ye want to dew is this : Ef ye see this man 
Featherstone prospectin’ through the woods up 
in this direction, yew want to foller him. Yew 
want to foller him as the catamount follered 
Hezekiah Jones.” 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


327 

^‘And in what particular manner did the 
catamount follow Mr. Jones?” 

“What, didn’t I ever tell ye that story? I 
thought as how I told ye the story about Jones 
and the catamount.” 

“Not that I remember, Nate, though you 
have told me a hundred stories, first and last. 
Stories seem to roll off your tongue like water 
from a duck’s back. You can beat Scheherezade 
at telling stories.” 

“I don’t know about that, seein’ as I never 
knew the gent. I’d like to meet up with him 
though and swap a few with him. Waal, ef ye 
want to hear how the catamount follered Jones, 
just listen and I’ll tell ye.” 

“Hadn’t we better put it off, Nate, until some 
more favorable time? It’s getting late and I 
should be on my way back to the hotel.” 

“Naw,” it won’t take but a few minutes, and 
ef ye don’t listen now, I may disremember it 
by the time I see ye agin. Waal, it wuz jest 
this way: Hezekiah Jones lived at a small 
settlement up at the head of Crooked Lake. 
He wuz a man about fifty, a poor, no account, 
lazy, good-for-nothin’ sort of a creetur, with a 
fondness fer settin’ in the sun and fer consumin’ 
as much likker as he could get a hold of. He 
hed a scoldin’, ailin’ old wife, and he certainly 
wuz good to her in a way. He didn’t dew much 
in the way of pervidin’ fer the house, but, if 
there wuz anythin’ she wanted, he’d go ten mile 
afoot arter it Along about two year ago this 


NATE SAWYER 


328 

summer, she wuz sufferin’ from a bad attack of 
rheumatiz, and she allowed she’d like to make 
some sort of yarb tea. Now there wa’nt no such 
yarbs as he wanted in that locality, but Hezekiah 
said as how he knew where to get some. So he 
took a boat and started down the lake bright 
and early in the mornin’. When he got half 
way down the lake, he landed and struck off 
through the woods, six or seven miles to a 
clearin’, what he knew of. When he found what 
yarbs he wanted, and, when he had plucked em, 
he starts back through the woods fer the lake. 
It wuz now along toward noon, he wuz mighty 
tired and the sun wuz hot, so he concluded fer 
to lay down under a tree and take a short nap. 
He hedn’t slep very long, when he wuz woke up 
with somethin’ a smellin’ and a nosin’ of him. 
He opens his eyes and thar wuz a catamount, 
as big as the biggest kind of a dawg, a snoopin’ 
round him, as ef he wuz kind a makin’ up his 
mind where he’d put his teeth in first. Waal, 
Hezekiah wuz scairt that stiff thet he couldn’t 
move, his eyes wuz jest poppin’ outen his head, 
and the sweat stood out on him all over. Presently 
he lets out a howl thet could a been heard a mile 
off, and rolls over two or three times outen the 
criter’s reach, and jumps to his feet, and runs 
off through the woods as ef the very old devil 
was arter him. Waal, sir, that catamount wuz 
sorter surprised at first and jest stood a lookin’. 
Then he started arter him with assort of easy, 
swingin’ lope and, it wa’nt no time at all before 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


329 


he ketched up with Hezekiah. He didn’t jump 
at him or put his teeth into him, but jest follered 
him, and every time Hezekiah’d look back of 
him, there wuz that critter’s nose about three 
inches from the seat of his pants. Say, mebbe he 
didn’t run some. Arter he’d run a mile 
or two, he wuz all in and couldn’t run no 
further. His tongue hung outen his mouth, 
his lungs went up and down like a bellows and 
his heart wuz heatin’ like a sledge hammer. 
But still he kep a goin’ and a goin’ toward 
the lake; thinkin’ that ef he could onct reach 
his boat, he could get away from the beast. 
And there wuz that painter a follerin’ him like 
a dawg, with his nose jest an inch from 
Hezekiah’s calves. Pretty soon he kem to a 
likely tree, and givin’ a jump fer it, he swarmed 
up it like a sailor man. He wuz so scart that 
he had no sense left, or he’d a knowd that a 
catamount kin climb a tree better’n a squirrel. 
Waal, he got out on a limb which wuz about 
twelve feet from the ground. Then he turned 
around and saw the critter creepin’ along the 
limb toward him with his tail swishin’ from side 
to side. He got out on the end of the limb, so 
that the limb wuz bendin’ beneath him, and the 
catamount kep a crawlin arter him, with his 
big yaller cat’s eyes a-glowerin’ at him, and the 
hot breath of the beast makin’ him sick to his 
stummick. Then all on a sudden the limb broke 
and down he kem to the ground, with the 
painter eenamost on top of him. He never 


330 


NATE SAWYER 


knowed how he got to his feet and got away, but 
get away he did. Then it wuz the same thing 
all over again; he a-runnin’ and a-runnin’ and 
a-walkin’ and a-walkin’, with that thar beast’s 
nose jest so far from the seat of his pants. Waal, 
arter what seemed to Jones a hundred years, 
he kem at last outen the woods to where his boat 
wuz. He made one good spurt, got to the boat, 
shoved it off and fell into it. He wuz lyin’ 
’atween the thwarts, when, of a sudden, he felt 
the boat jounce up and down, and, lookin’ round, 
he saw that catamount a-settin’ on the stern seat, 
a-lickin’ his chops. Then he crawled up for- 
ward, took the paddle and paddled fer all he 
wuz wuth toward home. Pretty soon, howsom- 
ever, the animile begins to creep along the 
bottom of the boat to get at him, and he jabs him 
with the paddle, and hollers: “Wow! What yer 
doin’? Get back ther, ye nasty beast.” 

But the catamount didn’t mind him, but kep 
a gettin’ nearer and nearer. Then, of a sudden, 
he sort a made a pass fer Hezekiah; Hezekiah 
jumps to one side and the boat upset. When 
Jones kem up, he saw that painter a swimin" 
fer shore. He didn’t want his society no more 
so he strikes out fer a pint on the other side of 
the lake, about a quarter mile off. He wuz most 
drowndid a-gettin’ there, but he touched bottom 
arter a while and he dragged hisself up outen 
the water, and, when he looked arter the cata- 
mount, he wa’nt nowhere in sight. Arter layin’ 
down and restin’ all of a half hour, he sets out 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


331 


and walks up the lake, all of four miles to the 
settlement. When he kem to his shanty, he 
found his wife wuz gone to stay over night with 
her sister, who lived three mile away, so he turns 
in and goes to bed with all his close on, bein’ so 
dead tired and flabbergasted that he went to 
sleep as soon as he struck the mattress, and slep 
till the next mornin’. Waal, would ye believe it, 
when he woke up and looked round the room, 
the fust thing he see wuz that thar catamount 
a-sittin’ on the floor at the foot of the bed and 
a-lookin’ at him, with them big yaller eyes of 
his’n. They wuz two small winders in the room, 
and one of them wuz open, and, that wuz the 
way the critter got in. Waal, Jones wuz out of 
bed and outen the door and he’d slammed it to, 
quicker’n you could say scat. Then he went to 
the shed, got a board and a hammer and nails 
and nailed the board against the winder. 
“Now,” sez he, “Ye pesky, gol durned, nasty 
varmint, I got ye.” Then he went to the tavern, 
where there wuz always four or five fellers a- 
settin’ round waitin’ fer some one to set up the 
drinks, and he hollers out to em as he kem in 
the door: “Boys’ sez he, “they’s a awful big 
catamount up to the house, in my bedroom.” 

“Oh, what ye givin’ us? Go chase yerself,” 
sez a man named Bill Harkins, who wuz among 
those present. 

“Yer been drinkin’ agin,” sez a feller named 
Tony Meeker. 

“Naw, I aint been drinkin’,” sez Jones. Then 


332 


NATE SAWYER 


he goes on and tells em how he fell asleep in the 
woods and how that thar painter hed woke him 
up a-nosin’ and a-snoopin’ over him, and how he 
hed been a-follerin’ of him ever sence. 

“Yer got the jimjams,” sez another gent 
named Peter Small. 

“He sure has,” sez some one else. 

“Say, you fellers,” shouted Hezekiah, “here’s 
two dollars, and Pll bet it agin a round of drinks 
fer the crowd that thar’s a catamount in my 
bedroom.” 

When they see that he wuz willin’ to risk 
two dollars, they made up their minds there 
might be somethin’ in it, so they all follered 
Jones up to his house and looked in the window, 
and saw the varmint a-settin’ there sure enough. 
Then two of em got long poles and stuck em 
through the two winders, and poked em into his 
hide. First one of em would jab him and then 
the other, as he ran backwards and forwards 
across the room, and the way that catamount 
yowled and screeched would a riz the hair on 
top of your head. When they had punched the 
daylights most outen the critter, Tony Meeker 
said he’d go to his house, which wuz about a 
quarter of a mile off and git his rifle and shoot 
the varmint. While he wuz gone arter the rifle, 
a stranger kem a-walken’ pretty fast down the 
road, and he sez to the fellers: “Say, yew boys, 
has any one of youse seen a stray catamount 
loose around here?” 

“Sure,” they all hollered. “He’s in this house.” 


CYNTHIA RESOLVES 


333 

The stranger took a look through the 
winder. 

^‘That’s him fer sartain/’ sez he. “But what 
ye been a doin’ to him? He looks all beaten up, 
and there’s blood all over his head.” 

“We been a-jabbin’ the hell outen him with 
those poles,” sez Bill Harkins, “and Tony 
Meeker’s gone to get his rifle, so’s he kin finish 
the varmint.” 

“Say, that stranger wuz the maddest man yew 
ever did see. “Yew good fer nothin’ low down 
loafers,” sez he. “That’s my tame catamount. 
He wouldn’t hurt a rabbit, and here yew been 
a poundin’ the stuffin’ outen the poor little cuss. 
I got that painter when he wuz a month old, 
and brought him up on bread and milk and 
canned corn. I filed his teeth and cut his claws 
regular, and he’s so tame that my two kids kin 
maul him all around the house. He’s only nine 
months old now, and he’s jest like a great pup 
dawg. Say, bow’d yew come up with him? 
How’d he come in there? Then Jones he up 
and tells his story all over agin. When he’d 
got through with it, the man sez to him, sez he, 
“What’d ye dew to him to make him foller ye 
like that?” “I aint done nothin’ to him,” sez 
Jones. “Yes ye hev done somethin’ to him, or he 
wouldn’t a follered ye. Yew been enticin’ him 
in some way.” “Naw, I aint been enticin’ him.” 
“What yew got in your pockets?” sez the 
stranger. “Both your coat pockets is stuffed 
full of some kind of leaves.” “That?” sez 


334 


NATE SAWYER 


Hezekiah. “That’s catnip. My old woman’s 
got the rheumatiz awful bad, and I got this cat- 
nip to make some catnip tea. “And don’t ye 
know, ye derned fool,” said the stranger, “that 
a catamount will go forty mile arter catnip?” 
Waal, he opened the door and the catamount 
kem out and follered him away through the 
woods like a dawg; and always arter that the 
boys called Hezekiah “Catamount Jones.” 
Waal, now ye know how the catamount follered 
Hezekiah Jones, and that’s the way I want ye 
to foller this here Featherstone, ef ye see him 
prospectin’ around this away. I’d dew it myself, 
only I got to get away toward hum. Ef anythin’ 
happens to that gal, I’d feel mighty sorry, and 
I want yew to let me know of it. She’ll know 
where to find me. Now I must be ofl.” 

Keene and the guide grasped each other by 
the hand. The former assured the latter that 
he would follow out his instructions and they 
separated, Nate plunging into the forest, and 
Keene setting out on his way to the hotel. All 
the way there he pondered deeply upon the 
mystery which seemed to surround the girl, and 
at the same time he wondered at the guide’s 
interest in her, and at the miraculous manner 
in which the old man contrived to turn up at 
all kinds of times and places. 


CHAPTER XIII 
The Riddle is Solved 

Keene returned to the Inn at about half past 
four in the afternoon, and, going into the office 
of the hostelry, found the Englishman, Feather- 
stone, sitting there. It at once occurred to him 
that it would be good policy to make a show of 
friendship to the enemy, as, in that way, he 
would be the more likely to learn of his designs. 
He therefore nodded to him in an amiable man- 
ner, and, taking a chair by his side, offered him 
a cigar, and engaged him in conversation upon 
the news of the day, and upon other topics of 
a general character. 

Featherstone seemed pleased with the ac- 
quaintance, and, in a few minutes, proposed a 
game of billiards. Arthur, nothing loth, went 
with him into a room back of the bar, where he 
found a billiard table so old and dilapidated 
that it might have come over in the Mayflower. 
They played two games, and Featherstone won 
them both, which was not astonishing, as he in- 
variably marked up ten or twelve points upon 
the string, whenever he made a run of six or 
eight. Keene watched him with disguised 
amusement. 

‘What a cheap, contemptible cad!” thought 
he. 

335 


336 


NATE SAWYER 


During the games, the Englishman drank 
three or four glasses of Scotch whiskey. Twice 
he asked Arthur to join him, and seemed to be 
vexed at his refusal to do so. 

After they had finished playing and were 
passing through the bar room toward the 
office, he took Keene’s arm and stopped him. 

“You must have one drink with me, anyway, 
old chap, to show there’s no hard feelings about 
the games. You can’t refuse a gentleman’s 
invitation like that, you know. Besides, I wish 
to give a toast.” 

Keene knew instinctively that a crisis was 
coming, though he could not have told what it 
was to be. He never drank whiskey, but he 
reached for the bottle and poured his glass full 
to the brim with spirits. 

“You aren’t going to drink that amount of 
liquor neat, are you?” asked Featherstone, 
astonished. “My Aunt! You must have the 
stomach of a blooming ostrich. Now, for the 
toast.” Raising his glass aloft, “Here’s to the 
health of the prettiest girl in the country; 
Cynthia Marwood.” 

Arthur raised his glass, as if to drink, and 
then, suddenly, threw the contents, with ex- 
quisite aim, into the Englishman’s eyes. 

Featherstone spluttered and gagged, drop- 
ping his own glass to the floor; then, dashing 
the stuff out of his eyes, he gave one frightful 
oath and leaped for Keene’s throat. Old man 
Wilkinson, however, at the first sign of trouble, 


THE RIDDLE IS SOLVED 


337 


had slipped around from behind the bar, and 
seizing Featherstone’s arms, pinioned them 
behind him. 

“None of that,” said the old man, “that kind 
of thing doesn’t go in here.” 

“I’ll kill you for this,” shouted the enraged 
Briton, as he struggled vainly in Wilkinson’s 
grasp. 

Arthur stood calmly and smiled at him. 
Presently, seeing that further action would be 
suspended for an indefinite time, he sauntered 
leisurely through the office to the stairway and 
ascended to his room. He now sat down by the 
window, where he could watch the village 
street, and chuckled as he recalled Featherstone’s 
appearance, with the liquor trickling down his 
face and into his moustache and over his collar 
and shirt. 

“We are now at dagger points,” thought he. 
“Nothing better could have happened. I have 
commenced, as I should, by insulting him, and 
the strangest thing about it is that it makes me 
feel now as if I could murder him in cold 
blood.” 

At half past five, Featherstone issued from 
the Inn, accompanied by a tall, strongly built 
man, who was dressed coarsely and like a woods- 
man. The two had been drinking quite deeply, 
to judge from their fiushed faces and the 
mathematical precision with which they walked. 
Arthur waited until he thought a sufficient 
interval had elapsed, and then went down into 
22 ; 


NATE SAWYER 


338 

the village street and followed them. As he 
passed through the office, he asked Wilkinson 
who it was that had gone out with the English- 
man and was told that the man’s name was Salter. 

The two men ahead of Keene took the 
direction of the mill. When they reached it 
they did not enter, but passed around it. They 
were engaged in low, earnest talk, and sauntered 
along as if they had no particular business upon 
their minds. The path soon brought them within 
cover of the woods above the mill, and at once 
their whole demeanor changed. Now it seemed 
as if they were occupied with some settled and 
well-planned purpose. They seemed to know 
just where they were going, and their slow aim- 
less saunter, with which they had set out from 
the tavern, was changed to a rapid, business-like 
walk. 

They kept along the creek for perhaps a mile 
after leaving the mill ; then they turned toward 
the south along the edge of the marsh filled with 
cat-tails, and, after proceeding in this direction 
for about a mile, they turned about to the east 
and struck out through the very heart of the 
dense pine forest. 

Now and then Featherstone, who acted as the 
guide on this occasion, would stop and look 
around him, as if seeking some indication by 
which he might verify some route which he had 
before taken ; then they would go on again, some- 
times turning to the south, and as often veering 
around to the east, always with the same rapid 


THE RIDDLE IS SOLVED 339 

walk and appearance of a settled and well-laid 
plan. 

Towards half past six o’clock they had got 
five or six miles away from Glendale. At this 
point they paused again, and, after a somewhat 
longer examination of the trees and other ob- 
jects in the vicinity, they took, for the first time, 
a northerly direction. Half an hour more 
brought them to a small stream, deep and clear 
as crystal, which whirled along beneath the 
overarching dark-green branches, upon a bed 
which seemed as if cut out of the solid rock for 
its special accommodation. 

“I knew I should find it all right,” exclaimed 
Featherstone, with a laugh of triumph. “Ten 
minutes more and we will get to the bally fall.” 

In a few minutes more, in fact, the sound 
of a fall of water was heard in the distance. 
The two men hastened, and shortly found 
themselves on the edge of a small gulley or 
canon, in close proximity to the cascade which 
they had heard while approaching through the 
forest. 

They were upon the very spot where Keene 
had stood with Roberts after they had come up 
out of the wonderful glen, where the former had 
passed such a memorable night. 

The Englishman threaded his way through 
the underbrush towards the cascade. 

“The ladder should be hereabouts,” said he, 
“unless the fools have suspected something and 
taken it down.” 


340 


NATE SAWYER 


don’t see it,” exclaimed his companion. 
“Curse them! they’ve been too smart for us.” 

“Not this time, Salter; for here it is,” 
shouted Featherstone, exultingly. “That thou- 
sand dollars reward looks pretty good. What?” 

He had no sooner found it than he com- 
menced to descend. When he reached the 
platform cut into the rock, behind the cascade, 
he paused and waited for his companion to join 
him. This Salter did with some trouble, as he 
found greater difficulty in the descent than his 
lighter and more agile partner. 

The two men, with the Englishman in the 
lead, then started to come out upon the path 
or ledge which skirted the glen, when suddenly 
Featherstone drew back, pulling Salter with 
him, under cover of the falling water. 

“What is the matter?” exclaimed Salter. 

“The girl! didn’t you see her? She stands 
out on that point of cliff which juts over the 
creek, two hundred feet down the glen.” Salter 
craned his neck out of their hiding-place. 

“Yes, there she is, sure enough, and she’s an 
elegant picture to boot. What will you do 
now?” 

“I propose to get between her and the house, 
which lies a quarter of a mile the other side 
of her around the bend. You wait here and cut 
her off if she tries to get away into the woods, 
and ril sneak along under cover of the rocks 
and shrubs until I get the other side of her.” 

He immediately proceeded to put his plan 


THE RIDDLE IS SOLVED 


341 


into execution. Cynthia, for it was she, was 
standing in a pensive attitude, looking down into 
the water. The ledge at the point where she 
stood was some forty feet wide, and covered 
with several great boulders and a number of 
dwarfed hemlocks, so that it seemed an easy 
matter for him to elude her attention and pass 
behind her. Such, in fact, it proved, for in a 
few minutes, by dint of dodging from one cover 
to another, Featherstone had passed the spot 
where she stood and suddenly appeared to her 
astonished gaze, thirty or forty feet farther 
down the gulch. 

When she saw him arise, as it were, out of 
the rocks, she uttered a cry of alarm and turned 
to go up the glen. Then she saw his companion, 
and knew that retreat was cut off in both 
directions. What did she do then but return 
quickly to her first position on the point of the 
cliff which overhung the abyss. 

Featherstone advanced toward her, touching 
his hat as he did so with a mocking air of 
politeness. 

“What do you want?” she asked, in as steady 
a voice as possible. 

“That remains to be seen, pretty sweetheart. 
I heard you were living here in the woods, and 
thought I’d come up and see what kind of a 
little dove cot you had.” 

“This is private property. How dare you 
come here without permission? I shall call the 
men unless you go at once.” 


342 


NATE SAWYER 


She drew herself up as high and struck as 
imposing an attitude as her five feet four per- 
mitted. 

^‘They won’t hear you; and, besides, there’s 
nothing to worry about. I was simply making 
a gentlemanly call. They tell strange stories 
about your people here. I think it’s all a lot 
of Tommy rot, but I thought I’d come up and 
see what there was of it. Not that I’d ever say 
anything about what I saw, my little Cynthia.” 

The girl turned a frightened, anxious look 
down the glen. She knew she would not be 
heard at the cottage should she scream, and, 
besides, there were reasons why she did not wish 
to bring aid from that direction. He advanced 
still nearer, and she retreated to the very verge 
of the cliff, which at this point was fifty or sixty 
feet above the bed of the stream. 

“Come, darling!” said he, with an insulting 
leer on his face. “We’ll go down together and 
make a call at the cottage, and see if the master 
of the house is as elegant a gentleman as he is 
reported to be. I would have called there ten 
days ago if I had thought you were there.” 

The girl shrank away from him in speech- 
less terror, a terror which seemed to be caused 
by something more than her apprehensions for 
herself. 

“What! you won’t come, Cynthia dear? 
How it pains me to see you so unfriendly! Let’s 
have a kiss and make it up ; what?” Saying this, 
he advanced toward her. 


THE RIDDLE IS SOLVED 


343 


“If you come one step nearer,” she cried, 
“I’ll jump off the cliff. I’d rather die than have 
such a beast as you touch me.” 

She stood on the very edge of the chasm, 
erect and defiant. Her small head was thrown 
back, her luxuriant, wavy hair trembled in the 
breeze, and in her eloquent eyes was a look of 
determination which assured him that she would 
carry out her threat. 

He paused and temporized a little. 

“I was only joking. I wouldn’t care to kiss 
an unwilling maid. As for the call, I suppose 
we’ll have to put it off to some other time. My 
friend there seems to be getting impatient. See, 
he is coming toward us.” 

His companion had, in fact, left his position 
and advanced down the glen until he was quite 
near them. The unsuspecting girl looked up 
in the direction pointed out by the Englishman. 
It was the occasion he was looking for. He 
sprang forward quick as a flash and, grasping 
her by the wrist, pulled her away from the edge 
of the cliff. He held her easily while she 
struggled and tried to tear his hand from her 
arm. Salter came within ten feet, and stood 
leaning upon a boulder, watching the perfor- 
mance with an appreciative and satyr-like grin. 

Then all at once, as unexpectedly as lightning 
out of a clear sky, there leaped the form of a 
man out of the copse of dwarf hemlocks behind 
Featherstone, and the latter felt himself grasped 
by the collar with a tremendous jerk which 


344 


NATE SAWYER 


threw him away from the girl and sent him 
spinning around like a teetotum. 

“Oh, Arthur!” cried Cynthia, joyously, “I 
never was more glad in my life to see anyone. 
I’m afraid, though, you haven’t hurt him much. 
What a pity!” 

Keene, for it was that young man who had 
created such an unlooked-for diversion, stood 
for a moment contemplating Featherstone, who 
seemed to have some difficulty in recovering his 
equilibrium, owing partly to the spinning 
process and partly to the influence of John 
Barleycorn. Then he looked at the girl with a 
comical expression. 

“You see, Cynthia, I have broken that famous 
promise.” 

“Don’t speak of that now,” said the girl. “A 
man should know when to keep a promise and 
when to break it.” Then, suddenly, her expres- 
sion changed to one of alarm, and she cried out: 

“Arthur, — the other one ! — behind you !” She 
was too late. Salter, whom he had not observed, 
had stolen stealthily behind him, and ere he 
could turn he felt himself imprisoned in the 
iron grasp of the arms of the sinewy back- 
woodsman. 

The Englishman, at this, made a rush for 
the girl, who had turned to fly, and caught her 
around the waist. The sight nerved Keene to 
almost superhuman endeavor, so that he suc- 
ceeded in twisting himself around and catching 
hold of his captor, and the two went staggering 


THE RIDDLE IS SOLVED 


345 


about the rocky platform, among, the boulders 
and shrubs, tripping and rolling over each other 
and getting up again, until at last they fell 
heavily with Keene underneath. Salter was the 
larger and stronger of the two, but the young 
man was the more agile and his muscles were in 
better training and more practised. He suc- 
ceeded in raising himself upon his left elbow 
and dealt two terrible, stinging blows with his 
right fist upon Salter’s jaw and eye. Maddened 
by the pain, the great brute reached for a knife 
which he carried in his coat-pocket. The blade 
opened with a spring as he raised it. Keene 
struck him again, and the blade descended in the 
grass. At that moment, Cynthia, who had been 
struggling to tear herself from the grasp of 
Featherstone, and who had caught sight of the 
man with the uplifted knife bending over the 
prostrate form of Keene, screamed and slipped, 
fainting, through Featherstone’s arms to the 
ground. Salter, with the impetus of the blow 
which he had dealt, lost his equilibrium. It was 
Keene’s advantage, and in a second the burly 
woodsman was underneath and his antagonist, 
clutching him by his tangled hair and by his 
throat, was hammering the rock with his head. 

The Englishman, who supposed that his 
friend would do for Keene without trouble, 
had not observed the change which matters had 
taken. After bending over the girl for a 
moment, he had risen and was contemplating 
her with an air of fatuous triumph, when, with- 


NATE SAWYER 


346 

out warning, he received such a terrible, well- 
aimed blow upon the side of his head from 
Keene’s fist, that he plunged headlong twenty- 
feet along the rocky platform, and lay doubled 
up in an inert and shapeless mass, in a hollow of ‘ 
the rock half filled with muddy water. 

Cynthia had fallen in such a position that 
her head lay upon her arm, with her face looking 
up. Her eyes were closed, her long black lashes 
swept her cheek and made it seem deathly white, 
by comparison. Arthur brought some water 
from the little rivulet which trickled across the 
ledge and bathed her forehead, but she still 
showed no signs of life. Then the thought of 
the outrage wrought upon the woman he loved 
overcame him, and he so far forgot himself that 
he went over and kicked the prostrate form of 
Featherstone, obtaining from that individual 
several groans or grunts in way of response. 

It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening 
and the dusk was beginning to draw down. 
There was only one thing to do. He must carry 
Cynthia to the cottage. He took up the limp 
and unconscious girl tenderly and se^t out on his 
journey down the glen. As he started, he noticed 
that Salter was now sitting up and was rubbing 
his head and looking around in a stupid and 
dazed manner. 

In the position in which he held the girl, 
her head, with its abundance of soft and lustrous 
hair, nestled on his shoulder, her round arm was 
flung loosely about his neck, her cheek almost 


THE RIDDLE IS SOLVED 


347 


pressed his own, and her warm and balmy 
breath, which now began to come spasmodically 
and fitfully, fanned his cheek. He was filled 
with concern about her condition, but at the 
same time he could not help taking pleasure in 
contemplating so closely the perfect charms of 
his innocent and lovely burden. 

He was obliged, necessarily, to proceed 
slowly and with great circumspection, and it was 
several minutes before he made the two or three 
turns in the path and arrived at that point where 
the house was visible through the trees. There 
was a light shining from one of the windows, 
and as he drew near he observed a person stand- 
ing upon the steps and apparently peering into 
the gathering gloom. 

When he had come within a short distance 
of the cottage, Cynthia began to show signs of 
returning consciousness. Her bosom rose and 
fell, her breath came faster and she made efforts 
to disengage herself from Keene’s arms. 

At this, he set her feet gently upon the 
ground, and, finding that she could walk, put 
his arm around her waist, and so supported her. 
It may be that she was somewhat tardy in show- 
ing signs of returning consciousness, and that 
she permitted herself to be carried a great deal 
longer than was absolutely necessary. It must 
be remembered, however, that she was exceed- 
ingly upset and very tired, and probably it was 
also true that she felt quite comfy where she was. 

The person standing upon the steps now 


348 


NATE SAWYER 


came forward to meet them, and was shown to 
be an old, white-bearded man. When they came 
within a few paces of him, the girl suddenly left 
her protector and, stepping ahead, threw her 
arms around the old man’s neck and hung upon 
him. 

‘‘Father!” was all she said. 


CHAPTER XIV 
After Twenty- five Years 

Keene stood riveted to the spot with open- 
eyed astonishment. In a second a hundred 
thoughts traversed his brain, a hundred hitherto 
perplexing incidents came to his mind, and 
almost the whole mystery of the last week 
became clear to him. 

“What is it, child? Speak! Are you hurt? 
or ill? What has happened? And this young 
man, the same if I mistake not who was our 
guest not long since, how comes he here?” 

The old man stood erect with his arm around 
Cynthia’s waist, his keen dark eyes were fixed 
searchingly but kindly upon Arthur, and the 
tones of the voice were the same as those which 
the young man had heard upon that well-re- 
membered night. 

“He is here, father, by right of conquest and 
of courage. In fact, if he were not here, I 
would not be here. Two men set upon me, right 
by Lookout Rock, near the cascade. One of 
them was Featherstone, and they had been 
drinking.” She flashed a caressing look at 
Keene. “It would warm your heart to see what 
Arthur — I mean Mr. Keene — did to them.” 

The question will be asked. How did 
Cynthia know so well what Arthur had done 

349 


350 


NATE SAWYER 


to them, when, at the crucial moment, she was 
lying upon the rocks, apparently oblivious of 
all earthly events? 

“Well, well child,” said the old gentleman, 
“compose yourself, and you may tell me all about 
it later. Let us go in now, that Lisbeth may look 
after you. Sir,” said he, turning to Keene, “you 
are welcome to this poor home of mine. Will 
you enter with us?” 

The father and daughter then ascended the 
steps and entered the cottage. Arthur followed 
them gladly, as may be imagined. The old man 
motioned him to enter the library, the same room 
where he had been received before, and as he 
did so, Cynthia and her father passed into that 
part of the house on the opposite side of the 
corridor. 

A light was burning in a hanging lamp, the 
same which he had seen on approaching the 
cottage, and by its aid he now saw, in their 
accustomed places, all the objects which he had 
noticed upon his first visit. The books, the 
paintings, the weapons upon the wall, the great 
easy-chairs, and even the miniature of Cynthia. 
A fan lay upon one of the chairs, and upon an 
oaken table in one corner was a girl’s hat, one 
which he had seen many times before upon the 
head of its fair owner. These two trivial objects 
recalled a dozen pleasing scenes to his mind 
and made the room seem more familiar and 
dear to him. 

He sank down upon a great, well-worn, 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 351 


leather-covered couch, and, while awaiting the 
return of his hosts, meditated deeply upon the 
occurrences of the day and upon the extra- 
ordinary developments which he had just wit- 
nessed. Everything was clear to him now. The 
father, guilty of a crime twenty-five years ago, 
living in this secluded spot while the world 
believed him dead; the child, loving him not- 
withstanding all, and faithfully clinging to him 
in his adversity, fearful at all times lest his 
retreat should be discovered, visiting him fre- 
quently, and making his fortunes hers. 

This discovery easily accounted for all the 
seeming eccentricities and contradictions in 
Cynthia’s character and in her treatment of and 
manner towards him; and the more he thought 
about the matter, the more sensible he became 
of her peculiarly painful and awkward position. 
He remembered the sadness of her manner 
during the last few days when he was in her 
society. He was filled with compassion for the 
sweet and noble girl. He foresaw that the 
future would have trials and sorrows for her 
many times heavier and more bitter than any 
she had experienced, and, with the loyalty and 
staunchness of a true and gallant youth, his 
affection for her and his determination to stand 
between her and misfortune increased in pro- 
portion as he deemed her wretched and 
unfortunate. 

He was left alone for a long time, perhaps 
half an hour, and he improved the time by 


NATE SAWYER 


352 

stepping into the bed chamber, removing the 
stains from his clothing, and otherwise re- 
habilitating himself. At length the door opened, 
and Cynthia’s father stepped into the library. 
By the light of the lamp he now had the first 
opportunity of carefully observing this myster- 
ious personage. He arose to meet him, and was 
singularly impressed by his venerable counten- 
ance, his imposing figure, and his gentle and 
unassuming manner. 

His beard and his hair were full and snowy 
white, his features clear-cut and noble, and in 
the expression of his mouth and of his keen 
black eyes, and even in the wrinkles of his face, 
there was a look of kindness, of decision, and 
of rectitude. 

‘‘Mr. Keene,” he began, “you will pardon 
me, I know, for keeping you waiting so long, 
when I tell you that the time has been occupied 
in listening to my daughter’s account of the 
wretched event in which you so fortunately 
took part. Let me say now, briefly, that for 
what you have done you have a father’s warmest 
and most enduring gratitude. Supper is now 
served, and it will please Cynthia and myself 
to have your company at our small table. We 
will say nothing about this matter during the 
meal, as the poor girl has not fully recovered 
from the shock; but afterwards, when we are 
alone, there are many, things which I wish to 
.say to you, both about this and other matters.” 

He had taken the young man’s hand while 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 353 

speaking these words. His own trembled some- 
what with age or agitation, or both. Arthur 
returned his grasp cordially, and assured him 
that he was only too glad to be at his service, 
and they passed together through the corridor 
into the supper-room. 

It had the very same appearance as when 
he was last there. The quaint mahogany side- 
board, black with age, the wonderfully carved 
chairs, the dim, vague portraits, the snowy 
linen, the glistening glass and silver, and the 
great curious lamp which threw its soft radiance 
upon the cloth and left the rest of the room in a 
mysterious shadow; how well he remembered 
them all! 

The very same appearance, with one glad 
exception. In the previously vacant place, at 
the opposite end of the table, now sat the dear 
and charming being whose presence he had 
longed for so vainly on his first visit. 

She was very pale, and her plain and simple 
black robe was in marked contrast with the 
marvelous whiteness of her neck and face. She 
gave Keene a mischievous smile as he entered, 
and then, with cast-down eyes, resumed the 
duties which her part, as mistress of the table, 
imposed upon her. 

Christopher Marwood, for this of course was 
the appellation of the old gentleman, occupied 
the place opposite her, and the young man was 
gratified with a seat between them, which 
brought him in close proximity to Cynthia, 
23 


354 


NATE SAWYER 


Noiseless and swift and skillful, the staid Lisbeth 
went about her business, treating the young man 
as though he were a daily and constant guest, 
and, save for the few words which were abso- 
lutely necessary, the first half of the meal was 
eaten in silence. 

Arthur finally ventured a few trivial remarks 
on unimportant subjects, and this led to a con- 
versation between himself and the father of 
Cynthia, which, gradually, led up to an animated 
and pleasant discussion upon absorbing and 
interesting topics, such as travel and literature 
and art. 

Christopher Marwood, as Keene quickly 
perceived, was a man of wonderful intelligence 
and of extraordinary experiences. His wealth 
of information was prodigious, and his judg- 
ment upon the subjects of books and paintings 
and history was unbiassed and clear and deeply 
meditated. His words flowed forth in that low, 
musical, kindly voice which Arthur had heard, 
with such feeling on the memorable night of his 
first visit. 

The sincerity and seriousness of his discourse 
made it plain that his knowledge came from a 
life-long and loving devotion to these pursuits; 
and his amiable and fatherly manner showed 
that he was actuated solely by the wish to please 
and to instruct. What wonder was it that his 
hearer, fascinated and enthralled by the old 
man’s conversation, and now and then lifted to 
the seventh heaven by a sly and approving smile 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 355 

from Cynthia, was rendered so oblivious of the 
present that time slipped away unnoticed, and 
he almost forgot to satisfy his appetite. 

To his great regret and sorrow, the meal 
came at last to an end. Mr. Marwood arose 
and gave him a look which meant that the 
moment for the preconcerted interview had 
arrived. As he prepared to accompany his 
stately and venerable host, he turned and was 
rewarded by an almost affectionate “good 
night” from the little huntress, accompanied by 
one of those whimsical smiles, so rare now, which 
brought the dimple to her cheek. 

He passed with Mr. Marwood into the 
library. His host, after turning down the wick 
of the lamp a little, so as to give a more sub- 
dued and milder light, motioned him to the 
couch which he had once before taken that 
evening, and, seating himself opposite, for a 
while with his chin supported on his hand and 
his eyes cast upon the floor, seemed sunk in the 
most serious and painful thoughts. 

As Arthur observed him, he realized to the 
full the unfortunate and helpless situation in 
which he was placed. He thought of the terrible 
crime of which he was accused, and pictured to 
himself all the penitence, the remorse, and the 
agony which it had occasioned him. He found 
it almost impossible to believe that one so gifted, 
so gentle, and so amiable could have taken the 
life of his fellow man, and he wondered that, 
with such an imputation hovering over him and 


NATE SAWYER 


356 

suffering as he now seemed to be from the 
remembrance of that tragic scene of twenty-five 
years ago, he could throw it all aside, as he had 
during the last hour, and appear, to the full, the 
kindly, animated, courtly, old-fashioned gentle- 
man. 

“Mr. Keene,” he at length commenced, 
slowly and gravely, “in saying what I am about 
to say I am actuated by more reasons than one. 
In the first place, I know you to be an honest and 
loyal gentleman. My acquaintance with you 
and yours is greater than you have supposed. On 
your first visit to this house I knew who you 
were and the object of your journey to this part 
of the State; I knew your family by reputation, 
and also, in some measure, personally. Many 
years ago I was intimately acquainted with your 
good and estimable uncle, John Wainsborough.” 

Keene gave a start of surprise, but Christo- 
pher Marwood, without noticing it, continued: 

“This is one of the reasons, and is perhaps 
the least important. The others will appear as 
I progress with what I am about to tell you. 

“Without doubt you have heard of my his- 
tory, or at least a part of it. You have heard 
that I have been accused of a great crime. The 
accusation is true, but there are certain other 
things which I would have you know, and I 
propose now to give you, in a few words, a nar- 
rative of this unfortunate event and of its 
consequences. 

“It was almost thirty years ago that I came 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 357 

here with my brother, Stephen Marwood, and 
bought the tract of land which he owns now. 
He had brought a wife with him from our 
former home, but I was a single man. I will 
pass over the first three or four years of our 
occupation of this tract, and come down to the 
time when the trouble arose which brought on 
that fatal catastrophe. 

“We had a neighbor named Beriah Crane, 
a small land-owner, whose property had an in- 
considerable frontage on Otter Creek, upon 
which stream, as you perhaps know, was 
situated the first and largest mill which we 
erected. Our water-power, as we found soon 
after erecting the mill, was not sufficient for our 
increasing business, and it became necessary to 
construct a new and larger dam, a quarter of 
a mile above the first one and some distance 
above the point where this man’s property 
fronted upon the stream. This was the occasion 
of a lawsuit with Crane, which continued for 
two or three years, and cost us a great deal of 
money, and which, I regret to say, totally used 
up the limited resources of our opponent. About 
the justness of his claims I will say nothing. 
There are two ways of looking at everything, 
and probably the poor fellow thought that he 
was in the right. 

“I was very hot-headed in those days, very 
different from my brother Stephen, who was 
cooler, more reasonable, and probably more just. 
I was firmly convinced that we were in the right, 


NATE SAWYER 


358 

and would brook no opposition, no matter what 
the cost might be. We grow wiser and calmer 
with age, and I now see that what I then thought 
no more than just and reasonable may have been 
tyranny and oppression. 

“After the courts had given two or three 
decisions in our favor, we proposed a settlement 
with our antagonist. It was agreed that we 
should meet at the spot where his land touched 
the stream, and there talk the matter over. We 
met as agreed, but the meeting had a most 
melancholy ending. Crane’s mind had been em- 
bittered by his successive defeats and the loss of 
what little property he had. My brother and 
I were in the same frame of mind, and the con- 
ference quickly changed into an angry dispute, 
for which, I am sorry to say, perhaps I was more 
to blame than the others. I gave the unfortunate 
man some hard words, and in reply he used 
some epithet, I forget what it was now, which 
raised all the evil that was in me. I was beside 
myself with passion and I struck him, and the 
poor man fell senseless at my feet.” 

Here Christopher Marwood paused, seem- 
ingly much overcome, and pressed his hand to 
his eyes as if to shut out the remembrance of 
this scene. 

“Immediately,” he at length continued, “I 
was conscious of what I had done. I bent over 
the body of my victim and did all that lay in 
my power to reanimate him, but it was in vain. 
It was a terrible blow which I had dealt him in 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 359 

my insensate rage, and the horrible conviction 
came upon me that I was a murderer. His 
breath had stopped and his heart had ceased 
to beat, and at last rny brother and I were forced 
to relinquish our hopes and exertions and face 
the dread reality which was brought before us. 

“My brother, whose affection for me crowded 
out all other thoughts, at once advised me to 
fly. ‘Go home immediately,’ said he, ‘and make 
the necessary preparations. I will remain here, 
meanwhile, and use every means possible to 
bring him back to life.’ 

“I was stupefied with horror and remorse, 
and took the advice which was offered me. 
While engaged in the preparations for my de- 
parture I still hoped against hope. When 
Stephen arrived at the house, I looked longingly 
and beseechingly in his eyes, but the grave look 
upon his face let me know that the worse had 
come to pass. 

“He informed me that, after laboring for an 
hour or more with the inanimate clay, he had 
buried the remains and had carefully conce.aled 
every evidence which would lead to the detec- 
tion of the crime. The few moments which 
were left us were occupied in settling our affairs. 
I had no future before me, no ambition, and no 
use for money, over and above what I would 
need for my own living. We had at that time 
about thirty thousand dollars lying in the bank. 
It was agreed that I should take this sum, and 
in return give up to my brother my interest in 


NATE SAWYER 


360 

the land and in the business. This interest was 
worth several times the amount which I 
received, but I parted with it without regret, 
and I was glad to be able in this way to repay 
Stephen in part for the affection which he had 
always had for me. 

“I went away from Glendale that night, as 
I supposed never to return. I crossed the ocean, 
and left, thousands of miles behind me, the 
scene of that awful tragedy; but, go where I 
might, the remembrance of it, in all its details, 
was ever with me. After a while I sought for- 
getfulness in work. I engaged in mercantile 
pursuits, and became interested, with two others, 
in importing merchandise from South America. 
I prospered out of all reason; everything I 
touched seemed to turn into money. 

“It was about this time that I met the true 
and beautiful woman who became my wife. 
That is her portrait yonder upon the wall. I 
have another always with me.” 

At this the old man paused in his narrative 
and produced a lady’s picture, in miniature, set 
in a quaintly ornamental gold case. He gazed 
at it for a moment, and as he did so his eyes 
became moist, then he handed it to Keene, and 
the young man saw that it was an exact repro- 
duction of the portrait upon the wall which he 
had supposed to be the likeness of Cynthia. 

“Her father was an American and her 
mother partly French and partly Spanish. 
Fortunately for her, she lived but a short time 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 361 

after the birth of her child. While she was 
with me I was enabled to forget, in a measure, 
the curse with which I was branded; but after- 
wards, when I was alone again, the remem- 
brance of it came back, doubly intensified. 

“I now foresaw all the sorrow, shame and 
misfortune to which my little Cynthia was 
destined, and regretted bitterly that she had been 
brought into the world to be visited with the 
sins of her miserable father. It seemed to me 
that by separating from her and having her 
brought up a stranger to me, with a wide sea 
between us, her life might be happier and more 
innocent, and to this end I wrote to Stephen and 
made arrangements with this faithful and un- 
changing brother and friend to receive her under 
his roof and to bring her up with his own child. 
This he was the more glad to do, as his own wife 
had meanwhile died. 

“After parting with Cynthia, I again de- 
voted myself to my affairs, and in a short time 
had got together a fortune, which, though not 
a very great one, was more than sufficient for 
my needs, and ample enough to provide hand- 
somely for my daughter after I should be taken 
away. I now had no further incentive to work. 
I disposed of my interest to my partners, and for 
several years spent my time in seeking to find 
oblivion of that which continually haunted me, 
in viewing the wonderful relics of the past ages 
and the marvelous creations of artistic genius, 
and increasing my acquaintance with the master- 


NATE SAWYER 


362 

pieces of literature. But all was in vain; there 
has never been an hour of the day when I have 
not seen the picture of that sad event arise, with 
startling distinctness, before me; never an hour 
when I have been free from the bitter regret and 
sorrow which it occasioned. 

“I had long since realized the folly and 
cowardice of which I had been guilty in fleeing 
from the consequences of my crime; and a 
thousand times I regretted having done so. An 
irresistible impulse seized me to return to Glen- 
dale. I longed to see my child once more, and 
it seemed to me that even in the immediate 
vicinity of the fatal spot I could not suffer as 
much as I then suffered. 

“This longing for home and for my child 
at length became so strong that I could make 
headway against it no longer. I returned and 
took up my abode in this place. That was about 
seven years ago. A quarry had been operated 
here many years before. It had not been worked 
for a quarter of a century, and few persons if 
any, outside of Stephen and myself knew of 
its existence. I had brought with me from 
across the water two devoted people, man and 
wife, who were rather friends than servants. 
We took refuge in a small dilapidated house or 
cabin which stood on the site of the present 
dwelling. With the aid of Roberts, I destroyed 
the path or road by which this wonderful glen 
had previously been entered, and constructed 
the hidden and difficult stairway which you have 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 363 

yourself used. The building of the house as 
you see it, and the smuggling into the woods of 
the necessary material, was a much more dif- 
ficult undertaking, but we accomplished it in 
the year which followed our arrival. 

“Of course all this was not done without the 
knowledge of my brother. It was a surprise to 
him when he heard of my return, and he did not 
seem to approve of it. He was, without doubt, 
wiser than I in the matter, and had only my own 
interests in his mind. Time has shown that he 
was right, and that I should have remained 
away, but the impulse to return was so strong 
that prudence was cast to the winds. 

“I have seen him not more than three or four 
times in all the seven years that I have lived 
here. I do not think that he has become cold to 
me, but rather that the multitude of his affairs 
has been so pressing that he could think of noth- 
ing besides. 

“I had been here four years before I spoke 
to my daughter, and it was not until a year after 
our first meeting that she knew I was her father. 
I had intended to hold myself at a distance, and 
to have the small happiness of watching her 
from afar, without making myself known to her. 
My feelings were, however, stronger than my 
will, and I was not able to carry out my 
resolutions. I met her and talked with her, and 
finally, through my own weakness and partly 
through her filial intuition, she discovered the 
secret. 


3^4 


NATE SAWYER 


“Since then she has been to me more than 
I could ever hope. Her face and all her ways 
remind me hourly of her beautiful mother, and 
I would be supremely happy were it not for the 
dark shadow of crime which haunts me night 
and day, and the thought ever with me that by 
my act I have destroyed the future of this 
innocent and amiable being whom I love. 

“My resolution has long been taken. There 
is but one course for me to pursue, the course 
which I should have taken on the very night 
after the crime was perpetrated. I have a few 
preparations to make in regard to my house- 
hold and the disposition of my fortune, which 
will occupy me for two or three days at the most. 
After they are completed I shall deliver myself 
to the constituted authorities, ready to stand my 
trial for the slaying of that unfortunate man 
and to suffer whatever penalty may be imposed 
uDon me.” 


CHAPTER XV 

Cynthia Would Not, But She Did 

When the old man had finished his narra- 
tive he became silent, seemingly occupied with 
painful and conflicting thoughts. His deter- 
mination to deliver himself up, and suffer the 
penalty for his transgression, struck dismay to 
the heart of Arthur, who saw in it the prospect 
of fresh and more poignant sorrow for the 
lovely Cynthia. 

He felt that it was devolved upon him to 
say something in answer to Christopher Mar- 
wood’s disclosures, but he was uncertain what 
to say and what position to take about the matter. 
What he did finally say was said in a faint- 
hearted manner, a manner which showed that 
he was not half convinced himself. 

“I am deeply moved, Mr. Marwood, by 
what you have told me. No one could help 
being so. Your position causes me sincere sor- 
row, and it does seem to me that, if there is any 
such thing as an expiation in this life for sins 
committed, your offence must have been wiped 
out long ago. We must consider first the effect 
which it will have on the life and the future of 
your innocent and beautiful daughter. I cannot 
advise you; in the first place, because I am 
younger and more inexperienced than you, and 

365 , 


NATE SAWYER 


366 

in the second place, because I would have no* 
right to do so. But it seems to me that I would 
try everything else before coming to the deter 
mination which you have announced. Why not 
take her and go far away from here, to the utter- 
most parts of the earth, where you are not known, 
and where you may both be secure from the 
malice of idle tongues and the insolence of men 
like this Featherstone?” 

“What are these things compared to the suf- 
fering imposed upon a man by his own guilty 
conscience? and where could I go to escape 
that?” asked Christopher Marwood. The ques- 
tion now is not what is expedient, but what is 
just and right. I can battle no longer with the 
remembrance which haunts me; and so I have 
come to this irrevocable resolution. A day or 
two only is left me, for the invasion of our retreat 
to-day by this Englishman shows that I am dis- 
covered, and that I can remain here unmolested 
but a short time.” 

“Then, if nothing can change your deter- 
mination,” said the young man, hesitatingly, but 
in a sincere and earnest tone, “I have one thing 
more to offer, or rather to ask of you. From the 
first day when I saw your amiable daughter I 
have loved her deeply and honestly. With each 
moment of my acquaintance with her my affec- 
tion has increased, and my only wish is to make 
her happy. Before you take this last step give 
her to me. Let me make her my wife, and let 
me spend my life in protecting her from the 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 367 

cruel mercies of the world and in trying to make 
her forget the unhappiness which she has 
suffered.’’ 

The old man regarded Arthur with a look 
full of affection and of admiration. “One rea- 
son and the principal one,” said he, “why I 
wished you to hear my narrative will now be 
plain to you. I knew your feelings toward my 
daughter, and I did not wish you to express 
yourself before hearing all. I now see, what 
I before believed to be the case, that your love 
for Cynthia is true and steadfast and superior 
to the test to which I meant to subject it. Your 
proposal, coming as it does just at this time, 
when you know all, is most generous and manly, 
and proves the justness of the opinion which I 
have had of you. There is no one to whom I 
would more willingly intrust my Cynthia’s 
happiness, but yet there exist reasons which 
prevent me from giving my consent at the 
present time. At some future day it may be 
different. I cannot explain my reasons; all I 
can say is that they are sufficient.” 

Arthur had counted upon gaining Christo- 
pher Marwood’s consent, and his refusal dis- 
appointed him keenly. “If you could find it 
possible to tell me your reasons,” he said, in 
an earnest voice, “perhaps I could say something 
which would cause you to reconsider your 
decision.” 

“I cannot; at least just now, and they are 
such that you could say nothing which would 


NATE SAWYER 


368 

prevail against them,’’ answered the old man, 
sadly but firmly. 

The father rested his head, with its silvery 
locks, upon his hand, and seemed lost in a sor- 
rowful and regretful revery. The door had 
been left ajar when they entered the room, and 
a thin ray of light from the lamp was projected 
out across the floor and wall of the corridor. At 
this moment it seemed to Keene that a dark 
shadow crossed this ray of light, and a second 
later he would have sworn that he heard the 
sound of footsteps, light and airy as those of a 
ghost or fairy, cross the corridor and die away 
in the distance. It might have been only a fancy, 
and this was the more probable, as Mr. Mar- 
wood did not hear it, to judge from his still 
thoughtful and motionless attitude. 

At length the old man roused himself, and 
taking Arthur’s hand in his, gave it a hearty 
grasp, saying as he did so, with an air of forced 
cheerfulness : 

“We shall always be friends, though, young 
man, let these matters turn out as they may, and 
so let us say no more about them to-night. I 
am anxious to know the success of your under- 
taking in regard to your uncle’s property. I 
was informed that that was the object of your 
visit to this region, and, if it pleases you, I should 
like to hear whether you have sufficient proof 
to fasten the matter on the proper persons, and 
also whether you have succeeded in putting a 
stop to the depredations,” 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 369 

“Neither the one or the other,” answered 
Keene, with some constraint. “We are fairly 
certain about the identity of the man, but what 
does that amount to without positive proof? 
And as for putting an end to the depredations, 
that is a difficult thing when there is a matter 
of thirty thousand acres to look after. There 
is an old fellow, a guide named Sawyer, who 
assured me that, at some time or other, in some 
way which he did not make plain, he would 
furnish me with all the proofs required. I was 
also assured by another man that he was the 
only one who was able to do so. Whether or not 
to put any faith in his promises or ability, I 
know not.” 

“I am afraid it will be like leaning upon a 
broken reed,” said Christopher, shaking his 
head. “I have heard of this old man, chiefly 
through my daughter, who has met him several 
times in the course of her wanderings, and who 
has taken a great fancy and liking to him, 
mingled with an unlimited faith in his ability 
and integrity. I, for my part, have never seen 
him. I know that he is an honest and harmless 
person, for he has known our secret for a long 
time, and has, I am certain, kept it to himself. 
I would advise you, however, to make no account 
of his boasts or promises, for he is liberal with 
them to recklessness. After making Cynthia 
certain that he knew our secret and the story of 
my life, he informed her that she must keep 
up a good heart and that everything, with his 

24 


370 


NATE SAWYER 


aid and assistance, would turn out all right in 
the end. You see that he is as ready in his wild 
and baseless predictions with this fond and de- 
luded girl as he is with you, and that you must 
not depend upon him. Well, it is late, and we 
must retire. I did not ask you to stay with us 
to-night, for you know, of course, that we ex- 
pected it. Your former chamber is ready for 
you, and I will say good-night.’’ 

The old man gave Arthur another warm 
grasp, after showing him to his room, and left 
him for the night. One of the windows of the 
chamber was open. He turned the slats of the 
shutter and peered out for a long time into the 
darkness, listening to the rustling of the wind in 
the trees and the murmur of the water down 
below the cliff. All at once he heard a sound 
which seemed to come from a window in the 
other part of the house. It was faint and sub- 
dued. He heard it two or three times. It 
seemed like the sob or choking of a woman who 
was weeping; and then he heard it no more, 
though he waited a long time. 

He arose at an early hour next morning. The 
sun was just up, but there appeared to be no 
one stirring in the cottage. He looked at his 
watch, found that it lacked a few minutes of 
six o’clock, and decided to take a walk up the 
glen before breakfast. 

He ^tole out of the house, making as little 
noise as possible in order not to disturb the 
sleeping occupants, and in a minute or so found 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 37! 

himself past the first bend in the gorge and out 
of sight of the house. 

Innumerable birds were twittering and 
chirping in the tree-tops; the cool, fragrant 
breeze rustled the leaves and made them gleam 
like silver in the sunshine. With these sounds 
was mingled the plashing and gurgling of the 
brook in its bed below the cliffs, and altogether 
nature seemed fresh and gay and joyous, a con- 
dition quite at variance with the state of Arthur’s 
mind, which was depressed and full of anxious 
forebodings. 

For hours, during the night, his thoughts had 
been with the strange tale told by Christopher 
Marwood, and with imagining what would be 
the future of the old man and of his daughter. 
He had revolved the matter many times in his 
mind, and striven to evolve some plan by which 
the threatened disaster might be averted. He 
was even now engaged with the same thoughts, 
but all to no purpose. He could think of nothing 
which would not conflict with the father’s stern 
and clear ideas of honor and of duty. 

After proceeding some distance up the gulch 
and arriving at a point a short way below the 
scene of his encounter with the two men the day 
before, he sat down upon a large boulder near 
the edge of the cliff, and, looking downward at 
the stream, with its succession of foaming eddies 
and black pools and miniature cascades, fol- 
lowed out in his mind the train of thought 
which had occupied him so long. 


372 


NATE SAWYER 


Ten or fifteen minutes passed by, and so ob- 
livious ’was he of external matters that he did 
not notice the sound of light footsteps approach- 
ing from behind, and the first consciousness he 
had of another presence there Avas when, sud- 
denly, two small cool hands were pressed tightly 
upon his eyes. 

He had no need of vision to know who it 
might be. His heart had told him at the first 
touch of those little fingers. 

“Who is it?” asked a mischievous, musical 
voice. 

“I will describe her,” he answered, his whole 
being filled with the sweet and strange sensation 
which came from the touch of the girl he loved 
so dearly, and his heart beating with pleasure at 
the thought of her indulging in this innocent and 
affectionate familiarity. 

“She is of medium height, her hair is dark 
brown, almost black, her eyes the same; her 
complexion rose-tinted ivory, and there’s a 
dimple in one cheek. She wears a small gray cap, 
with a gray feather, perched coquettishly a little 
on one side of her small head, and a tight-fitting 
frock with a short skirt. Am I right?” 

“No, you foolish fellow, you are not right; 
you are too flattering,” she answered, uncover- 
ing his eyes and coming around where he could 
see her. 

While he was blindfolded and while he was 
describing her person in this manner, he had at 
the same time pictured her to himself, and the 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 373 

only way in which he could imagine her was 
in her character and dress of the little Diana. 
What was his surprise now to find that he had 
imagined her to himself and had described her 
exactly as she now stood before him. 

“I heard you leaving the house a short while 
since,” she continued. “I could not sleep well 
last night, and wanted a little exercise, and 
thought perhaps you would not object to my 
company for a few minutes.” 

“I do object to your company for a few 
minutes/^ 

The girl understood him, but pretended not 
to, and turned away with a pout, as if to return 
to the house. 

“Very well, sir. I shall go back and leave 
you.” 

“I would not object to your company for an 
hour, or a day, or a lifetime, but I draw the line 
at a few minutes. Come here, Cynthia and sit 
down.” 

She came with affected docility and took a 
seat beside him. 

“I could not sleep last night,” said she, “I 
had so much to think of. You know all now. 
Father said he should tell you. Do you wonder 
now that I cannot sleep? I wanted to talk to 
you this morning about it, because you have 
always seemed the right sort. I wanted to talk 
to you many times before, when my heart was 
heavy with it. Can we not go away from here? 
thousands of miles away, before any one else 


NATE SAWYER 


374 

finds out about it? Oh, what shall we do?” 

She did look pale and tired. All her affected 
gaiety had vanished as she concluded the last 
sentence. No longer was she the care-free and 
wayward creature who had flouted him with her 
tantalizing nonsense. He concluded that her 
father had not told her of his determination to 
deliver himself up to the authorities. He could 
not find it in his heart, himself, to tell her. In- 
stead, he cast about to find some way of bringing 
back a smile to her lips and some small degree 
of cheerfulness to her heart. 

“Now would be just the time,” said he, “for 
settling the question which we were talking 
about yesterday.” 

“What question was that?” 

“The question as to your marrying me.” 

She laughed in spite of herself. 

“You silly boy. Will you never stop talking 
about that?” 

“Yes, when the question is definitely settled.” 

“What is the exact meaning of your 
definitely’?” 

“By definitely’ I mean when the question is 
settled as I want it.” 

“I told you twice that I should never marry.” 

“I am glad of that, for two negatives make 
an affirmative.” 

“Then I tell you the same thing again now, 
and three negatives make a negative.” 

“No, I must correct you. There is no rule 
for three in the grammar. Besides, things are 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 375 


different now from what they were yesterday.” 

“How are they different?” 

“Yesterday I didn’t know your secret. You 
couldn’t tell me your secret, and so you foolishly 
thought that you couldn’t marry me. Now that 
I know all, as they say in the play, there is no 
reason why you can’t marry me.” 

“The very fact that you know all is another 
reason why I shouldn’t marry you. In addition 
to this, father refused you his consent.” 

“Did he tell you so?” 

“No, but ” 

“Cynthia, you were listening. I thought I 
saw your shadow in the hallway.” 

The girl turned her head away and hid her 
face from him. He never knew whether she 
blushed or smiled. 

“Cynthia. I am going to make a confession. 
Yesterday, I tried to kiss you.” 

“I know you did.” 

“Well, I am awfully sorry.” 

“You do well to show a proper repentance.” 

“I am awfully sorry, — that I didn’t kiss you.” 

She was very near him, her face was not more 
than a few inches from his. There was such a 
compelling magic in the light of her eyes, such 
a mutinous curve in her red lips, that he sud- 
denly put his arm across her shoulders, brought 
her face to his and kissed her full upon the 
mouth. She at once arose to her feet and made 
a great show of indignation. 

“Do you know what you have done? I never 


376 NATE SAWYER 

would have believed it possible. How could 
you do it?” 

“That isn’t the question. The question is, 
how could I keep from doing it. If you could 
realize how outrageously pretty you looked at 
the moment, you would know what I mean.” 

“What a silly excuse! You had certainly no 
right to take such a frightful liberty.” 

“When a man is engaged to a girl he usually 
kisses her.” 

“That is the very reason why you shouldn’t 
have done it. I am going back to the house.” 

“No, Cynthia dearest, come and sit down 
and I will promise never to kiss you again.” 

The girl stood irresolute. Perhaps such a 
promise seemed to her a bit too radical. At 
length she sat down again, though at some 
distance away. 

“I promise never to kiss you again, unless 
you first kiss me.” 

“And I suppose you think such a contingency 
is possible. There’s assurance for you. Never 
fear, you will not be called upon to repeat the 
performance. I wish you would stop all this 
ridiculous folly. I came out here to speak 
seriously with you. The condition of things is 
serious enough, I am sure. I wished to talk with 
you about old Nate, the guide. He always told 
me to send for him when we were in trouble, 
and that he would get us out of it, no matter 
what it was.” 

Keene’s face clouded as he saw the faith of 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 377 

the girl in this old, unlettered, impecunious 
guide. It pained him to think how certainly 
she would be disappointed. 

“You do not know him as I do,” she con- 
tinued, as she noted the look of doubt upon his 
face. “That man’s knowledge is simply wonder- 
ful. Sometimes I can hardly believe that he is 
a mortal like the rest of us. He seems uncanny. 
He predicts the future with certainty and he 
performs miracles.” 

“I think that I know what he means by 
getting you out of trouble,” said Arthur. “He 
has some theory about their not being able to 
convict your father, on account of there being 
no direct proof of Crane’s death. I studied law 
for a time, myself, though I was never admitted 
to practice, and I know that this is true in a 
measure. The common law holds that both 
the death of the person and the killing may not 
be proven by purely circumstantial evidence.” 

“This may be what he means, and again he 
may have something else in view. Anyway, I 
want him here. If he can do nothing to avert 
the calamity which I know is coming, he can 
take my father away with him through the 
forest, upon trails which no one can follow. I 
can then meet them upon the Vermont side of 
the woods, and from there we can go to some 
place of safety, if we have to seek the uttermost 
parts of the earth.” 

Keene thought again of Christopher Mar- 
wood’s determination to give himsdf up and 


NATE SAWYER 


37B 

was saddened by the thought of the cruel dis- 
appointment in store for her. 

“Let us procure his aid, then, by all means, 
Cynthia; but where shall we find him? I never 
was able to do it in my life, though he is always 
turning up at the moment when I least expect 
him. I would set out at once if I knew where 
the old fellow could be come at.” 

“He has a log hut, a small cabin, hidden 
away among the branches, on the shore of the 
lake at the head of Otter Creek,” said the girl. 
“It is immediately to the left of the outlet as 
you go up. He showed it to me once, but I 
could never have found it without having been 
told where it was. He is in the habit, so he 
says, of making a visit to this place several times 
a week, usually in the night time, and there it 
was that I was to send for him, should I be in 
urgent need of his services.” 

“I will set out this very day,” exclaimed the 
young man, “and if Nate Sawyer is there, I 
will bring him, if I have to bind him and carry 
him. By the by, Cynthia dear, I have one or 
two questions which I want to ask you. Of 
course, you can answer them or not, as you 
please, but my curiosity has been raised to the 
highest pitch and craves satisfaction.” 

“I think that I can guess what you want to 
know,” said Cynthia, with a smile. 

“In the first place who and what is 
Leonardo?” 

“Leonardo is my uncle.” 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 379 

“What, so young a man?” 

“Yes, when my mother, his sister, married, 
he was but a child. His name is Leonardo 
Hare. Isn’t it a funny name? He detests the 
name of Leonardo and signs himself Leonard. 
Val and I call him Lenny. He has been in this 
neighborhood now for three years. He bought 
a tract of several thousand acres next to father’s 
land, and considers himself a landed proprietor 
and a forester. He has adored Valeska since 
he first saw her, and she, dear girl, thinks the 
world of him, but cannot make up her mind to 
marry him; though he is an awfully good sort. 
Valeska, as you know, is slow but sure.” 

“I thought at first that Leonardo was a poet 
and a painter.” 

“I can imagine what made you think so. You 
supposed father’s compositions were his. He 
doesn’t know a water color from an oil painting, 
nor a Spencerian stanza from the wild uncon- 
ventionality of Walt Whitman.” 

“But I saw him the night of the day I came 
back from New York, pinning a serenade to one 
of the pillars of the summer house.” 

“That is a common thing. I think that he 
must appropriate them from father’s manu- 
scripts. Valeska has saved all these effusions 
and has put them in her scrap book.” 

“Then it was Mr. Hare’s house where I 
touched the ghost?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you were the ghost?” 


38 o 


NATE SAWYER 


“Yes.’’ 

“Why were you wigwagging with a candle, 
at midnight of the day I first saw you?” 

“I was signaling Uncle Lenny. He taught 
me the code.” 

“What were you saying to him?” 

“A man has discovered our cottage. Come 
over at once and help me get rid of him.” 

“I have still another question which I 
wished to ask you. Why did you and Valeska 
masquerade under each other’s names when I 
first met you?” 

“That is easily answered. You had seen me 
here in the glen, and I feared that you might 
imagine that my father was concealed here. If 
you thought that I was Stephen’s Marwood’s 
daughter, you would not be likely to suppose 
any such thing. We thought that you would 
remain but a day or two, and that the deception 
would never be discovered. Perhaps it was 
foolish but I did it out of anxiety and love for 
my father. Dear Val fell in with my plan at 
me. You do not know what a lovely girl she is. 
What would have happened had you seen her 
first?” 

“It would have made no difference. When 
a man loves a girl as I love you, it shows that 
he was prepared by instinct, taste and education 
to fall in love with just such a girl and with none 
other.” 

At this moment footsteps were heard coming 
down the glen towards them. Arthur started 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 381 

suddenly, as if fancying that it was another visit 
from the unwelcome callers of the day before. 
Just then a man came into sight, and Cynthia, 
catching a glimpse of him, said compose- 
edly: 

“It is only Roberts. Father sent him up 
yesterday, after we arrived at the house, to see 
what had become of those men. He did not 
return last night, and I suppose he must have 
gone some distance, following them. Some- 
times he goes to the village. They do not know 
him down there, and he is always careful to see 
that he is not watched or followed.” 

Roberts by this time had arrived within a 
few paces of them. 

“Is there any news, Roberts?” asked she. 
“You may tell everything before Mr. Keene 
here, who is our friend.” 

“Yes, Miss Cynthia, there is grave news. 
When I came up here last night those two 
villains had gotten themselves out of the way. 
I went a piece through the woods, and after half 
an hour or so came upon them. I had to keep 
at a considerable distance, so could not hear 
them, excepting that they swore very often. One 
of them, the big one, limped a good deal, so it 
was an easy matter to keep up with them, which 
I did as far down as the mill. I then went down 
and hung around the village during the night. 
I was in the tavern and saw them drinking. I 
used my ears there and elsewhere to good ad- 
vantage, and I have news to tell you which is 


382 NATE SAWYER 

bad enough. I would like, though, to Speak to 
you alone.” 

“There is nothing which you cannot say just 
as well before Mr. Keene. He knows all.” 

After casting a rather uneasy look at Arthur, 
the man continued, hesitatingly: 

“It is all about that nasty piece of business 
of twenty-five years ago. It seems they have 
discovered an old indictment against your 
father. They have gone after two or three 
deputy sheriffs or constables, and as near as I 
could learn they mean to set out some time this 
afternoon, with Featherstone, to find and arrest 
Mr. Marwood.” 

Roberts hung his head, after giving this 
disagreeable bit of intelligence, as if he himself 
were implicated in the proceedings he described. 
As for Cynthia, she turned deathly pale and 
leaned against the rock for support. 

“Oh, my father!” she said. “What is to be 
done? Can we not get him to go away?” 

“Not he!” exclaimed Roberts. “He means 
to do the most foolish thing of all. He has 
made up his mind to ” 

Arthur made a gesture for Robert’s benefit 
to prevent him from informing the girl of her 
father’s fatal resolution, and broke in with: 

“Something can be done and will be done. 
Roberts, you go down to the house, and I will 
follow with Miss Cynthia when she has re- 
covered somewhat from the shock which your 
news has given her. You had best not tell her 


CYNTHIA WOULD NOT, BUT DID 383 

father of this matter until we talk it over.” 

The faithful servant of Christopher Mar- 
wood nodded and went on his way towards the 
cottage. Arthur turned his attention to Cynthia, 
who, with her hands clasped in her lap, looked 
straight before her, with an expression of despair 
upon her charming face. 

“Do not lose courage, Cvnthia. It cannot 
be as bad as Roberts thinks. Something 
fortunate will happen. At all events, even if 
they start as early as he says, they will not be 
here before five or six o’clock in the evening, 
and by that time I shall be here with Nate. 
I propose to set out at once. It is now seven 
o’clock. By eleven o’clock I shall arrive at the 
lake, and at three o’clock in the afternoon we 
shall be here again.” 

“Sometimes I think it would be just as well 
if I should remain here, and take my stand with 
Roberts at the head of the glen. He seems a 
husky fellow, and we might hold the pass 
against all comers, like that fellow upon the 
bridge that Macaulay tells about.” 

“That is nonsense. I have no doubt that you 
could do it, but it would make matters all the 
worse in the end. You may laugh at me as 
much as you like, but I have a superstition about 
the old guide and I wish he were here.” 

“Never fear, Cynthia, if I can find him, I 
will have him in the glen this afternoon, if I 
have to carry him.” 

They had now set out on their return to the 


384 


NATE SAWYER 


house. Keene did not share her confidence in old 
Nate, but she was evidently sincere in her belief, 
and this sincerity impressed itself to a certain de- 
gree on the young man, who could not help ad- 
mitting to himself that there was something very 
astonishing, not to say supernatural, about the 
character and talents of that curious personage. 

It was arranged that he should stop at the 
house just long enough to breakfast hastily, and 
then forthwith set off on his long and tiresome 
expedition in quest of the old guide. They had 
gained a point now a few rods only from the 
cottage, which was still hidden behind the cliffs 
and the pine-trees. 

Cynthia stopped and faced him. 

“Your necktie is coming loose,” said she, 
“let me tie it for you.” She took the two ends 
of it in her taper fingers, but found that she 
was not tall enough. He bent over somewhat 
to accommodate her. Suddenly she lifted her 
face to his and kissed him on the lips. Then 
turning she ran, with the fleetness of a doe, in 
the direction of the cottage, and in a moment 
was lost to sight in the copse which sur- 
rounded it. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Nate is Equal to the Occasion 

A few minutes later, Keene, having break- 
fasted quickly, left the house without again 
meeting either of his hosts, and, ascending the 
glen, made his way up into the forest and set 
out on his long tramp in search of the much- 
needed Nate. 

He found, as he expected, that it was a much 
easier matter to find the way going from the 
mysterious glen than it was when one was in 
search of it. After half an hour’s march, he 
had got sufficiently to the eastward to clear the 
upper end of the great gorge of Otter Creek. 
It was an easy task for him then to strike the 
creek and continue his journey by following its 
course upward. 

His anxiety on account of Cynthia and her 
father increased with every moment. Already, 
in his mind’s eye, he saw the cottage invaded by 
three or four emissaries of the law, and the 
venerable, white-haired Christopher Marwood 
subjected to insult and rough usage before the 
eyes of his daughter. These thoughts caused 
him to accelerate his pace and to dash along the 
rough, half-obliterated trail, through under- 
brush and morass, and up steep acclivities, with- 

^5 385 


386 


NATE SAWYER 


out the slightest regard for his person or his 
powers of endurance. 

At the same time the temporary faith in the 
ability of the old guide, which had been 
awakened in his breast by the confidences and 
enthusiasm of Cynthia, oozed slowly away like 
the courage of Bob Acres, and he asked himself 
many times if he were not bound upon a fruit- 
less and idiotic errand, and if it would not be 
better to return and help Cynthia and her father 
face the danger which menaced them. And as 
often would the charming face of his beloved 
rise before him and urge him onward to com- 
plete his journey. 

It was but half past ten when the lake came 
in sight. He had accomplished the distance in 
three hours and a quarter instead of four hours. 
The log cabin or hut of the guide, according 
to Cynthia, stood sornewhere under cover of the 
trees, upon that side of the outlet upon which 
he found himself. He carefully skirted the 
shores of the lake, beginning at the outlet. After 
scanning the forest for a quarter of a mile with- 
out success, he returned upon his footsteps, and 
at length, under cover of a thick copse of 
tamaracks and cedars, a point which he had 
scrutinized before to no purpose, he dis- 
covered it. 

It was small and rudely constructed. The 
interstices of the logs were, however, carefully 
stopped with clay. The roof boasted a smoke- 
pipe, and its one door and window were storm- 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 387 

proof, so that it would afford protection in all 
kinds of weather, even in the depths of winter. 
Keene looked through the window. There was 
a canoe lying upon the floor, and the hut con- 
tained a small wood-stove, a bed, a chair, a table, 
and one or two other necessary articles. The 
old guide, however, was not visible; neither was 
there any evidence to show that he had been 
there recently. The cabin, with all that it con- 
tained, presented a deserted, lonely appearance. 
The grass was growing before the sill, and a cob- 
web had been woven right across the door- 
frame. 

Keene was now more than ever convinced 
that he had come upon the wildest of all wild- 
goose chases. He had tramped a dozen miles 
through the woods to find a harum-scarum, ir- 
responsible individual, without there being any 
likelihood at all of his being at the point where 
he expected to meet him; and with what ex- 
pectation? With the expectation that this 
ignorant, boastful old man, without means or 
influence, was able in some way to stop the 
wheels of justice and save Christopher Mar- 
wood from the fate which he himself admitted 
to be inevitable and just. 

It was now a quarter past eleven. The 
sheriff’s party would probably set out from 
Glendale about half past one, and would arrive 
at the glen at about four o’clock. If he got back 
before their arrival, he would have to start cer- 
tainly by a quarter or half past twelve. He 


NATE SAWYER 


388 

therefore had an hour at his disposal, and he 
concluded to wait that length of time for Nate. 

The old guide, if he came at all, would come 
by water. Keene, therefore, stretched himself 
upon a mossy knoll which lay between the hut 
and the shore of the lake, and which commanded 
a view of the entire surface of that body of water, 
and for some time kept a careful lookout for the 
appearance of the canoe of the man whom he 
was seeking. 

It was a beautiful piece of blue water, sur- 
rounded by a dark picturesque fringe of forest 
and encircled by lofty hills, some with bare, 
craggy tops, and others clothed with a soft, un- 
dulating carpet of woods. He saw a reddish 
object moving in the bushes at the right, and 
raised himself to look at it. It was a deer com- 
ing to the water to drink. Now and then a king- 
fisher gave forth its discordant cry, and a solitary 
eagle wheeled about in the blue ether a half a 
mile above the lake. 

He had had little sleep the night before, 
and was very much fatigued with his recent 
exertion. Besides this, there was something in 
the prospect to make him drowsy, and in the 
sound of water rippling against the shore below 
him. After a while he could resist these in- 
fluences no longer and fell asleep. 

He awoke with a start and looked at his 
watch. It was two o’clock. He had slept about 
two hours, and it was now utterly impossible to 
get back to the glen before the arrival of the 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 389 

party from Glendale. Never before had he 
felt so ashamed of himself. He was wretched 
at the idea of his weakness in thus forgetting 
and neglecting the interests of her he loved so 
much, and his first impulse was to return with 
all speed possible, with the forlorn hope of ar- 
riving in time to be of some aid to his unfortunate 

He once more, with his hand shading his 
friends. 

eyes, scanned the extent of water, and was about 
to give it over and plunge into the forest, when 
there appeared a small speck upon the surface 
of the lake a mile or more away. It was in the 
direction of the head of the lake, and a careful 
inspection showed it to be a boat propelled by 
a solitary oarsman and coming in his direction. 

The next ten minutes were an_xious ones for 
Keene. At the end of that time he was able to 
distinguish in the boat a man clad in a blue 
woolen shirt and a dilapidated slouch felt hat, 
and in ten minutes more, the boat having arrived 
within a distance of a quarter of a mile of the 
place where he stood, he become convinced that 
the occupant of the boat was no other than Nate 
Sawyer the guide. 

When he came within hailing distance, 
Arthur called out to him, telling him to hurry, 
but the old man seemed to have become deaf, 
for he paid not the slightest attention to his 
reiterated shouts. Finally the bow of the boat 
grated against the ground at Keene’s feet. 

“I have been waiting for you three hours or 


390 


NATE SAWYER 


more/’ said the young man, speaking quickly 
and irritably. “Miss Cynthia and her father 
are in trouble, and she has sent me after you. 
We cannot arrive in time as it is; let us begone 
at once.” 

“I expected to see ye here, near about this 
time.” 

This was the only answer vouchsafed to 
Keene’s appeal by the Ancient Mariner, who 
forthwith began hauling his boat leisurely out 
of the reach of the water. After this was ac- 
complished, he very slowly took from it his 
paddle and several small articles, and having 
unlocked the door of his hut, proceeded to put 
them away inside. Keene, meanwhile, was 
growing very impatient. 

“This is almost a matter of life and death,” 
said he, angrily. “I told you that we could 
scarcely arrive in time. Will you go or not?” 

“What is the matter?” asked Nate, lighting 
his pipe with exasperating coolness. 

“This Featherstone, of whom you told me, 
came up there yesterday and insulted Miss 
Marwood. I had followed him from Glendale, 
and was just in time to rescue the girl and to 
chastise him soundly.” 

“Did ye, though?” interrupted Nate, looking 
at Keene admiringly. 

“It seems he found out about Christopher 
Marwood. The Englishman went back to 
Glendale; they looked up an old indictment 
against him for the murder of one Beriah Crane, 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 391 

twenty-five years ago, got out a warrant, and 
were to start to arrest Mr. Marwood in the 
afternoon. Probably at about this time. The 
old man’s daughter is wild with apprehension, 
and, as a last resort, entreated me to find you 
and bring you there before the sheriff and his 
posse should arrive.” 

“Did she, though?” ejaculated Nate, with a 
chuckle of satisfaction. 

“Yes, it seems that, from something you 
have told her, she has the greatest faith and 
confidence in you, and thinks that you can save 
her father.” 

“Right she is, young man.” 

“Well, what are you waiting for? As I 
told you before, we can scarcely arrive in time 
as it is.” 

“Let’s see,” said Nate, reckoning upon his 
fingers. “They start at two, or, figurin’ on two 
or three loads of hard stuff at the tavern, which 
they won’t go without, we’ll say half past two. 
’Twill take ’em an hour and a half, or mebbe 
an hour and three-quarters, to get there, makes 
four, or a quarter past four. What hour’d ye 
say ’twas now?” 

“Half past two. You see it can’t be done. 
It will be all over by the time we arrive.” 

“No, it won’t,” contradicted Nate, puffing 
with an air of contemplation and enjoyment 
upon his pipe. “We’ll interfere somewhat with 
their little plan. By the by, d’l ever tell ye the 
Story about the four-cornered shootin’ match?” 


392 


NATE SAWYER 


‘‘No, you didn’t, and I can’t listen to you 
now.” 

“Waal, I want to tell ye that story, so jest 
listen.” 

“I’ll be damned if I do. We must not stay 
here a moment longer. If you start telling one 
of your long-winded yarns. I’ll leave you and 
go back alone.” 

“All right, young man, but ye’ve missed a 
better story than ye ever heard in yer life. I 
allow now, that we might as well be a-goin’.” 

“Well, why in heaven’s name don’t you start, 
then?” almost yelled Arthur, who was wrought 
up to a passion by the seeming indifference of 
the guide. 

“Give us time, Mr. Keene, give us time; 
and then, there’s no sech hurry as all that. Jest 
lend a hand with this canoe, will ye?” 

Saying this, he went into the hut and took 
hold of one end of the canoe which Arthur had 
previously observed lying upon the floor. He 
motioned the young man to raise the other. He 
obeyed, grinding his teeth meanwhile at this 
new delay. 

“Now then, easy, or ye’ll stave a hole in her 
bottom.” 

“What do you want to do with it, anyway?” 
demanded Arthur, repressing a sudden impulse 
to dash his end upon the ground and smash it in. 

“Float it, of course. Easy now! There she 
is!” exclaimed Nate, as the boat floated upon the 
water, tight as an egg-shell. “And now take off 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 


393 


your shoes and get in, if ye can, without up- 
settin’ her.” 

An inkling of the guide’s purpose passed 
through Keene’s mind. He meant to make the 
descent of Otter Creek in the canoe, as he had 
often done before, and as he himself had seen 
him doing a short while since. The passage of 
ten or a dozen miles occupied but an hour, so 
Nate had told him. He wondered that he had 
not thought of it, and hope revived in his breast 
at the prospect of yet arriving in time to prevent 
the catastrophe. 

With much care he crawled into the boat 
and placed himself in the bow. Nate shut and 
fastened the door of his hut, and, taking his 
paddle, sat down in the stern of the canoe. A 
few well-directed strokes sent them flying out 
into the lake. 

“Now,” said the guide, “I might as well tell 
ye that story about the four-cornered shootin’ 
match. It’ll take us ten minutes to get to the 
outlet, and we jest as well put in the time that 
way as another.” 

Keene muttered something which sounded 
very much like profanity; Nate, however, con- 
tinued : 

“It wuz a year ago last October that I hired 
out to a party of four fellers what kem up from 
Utiky to hunt deer. We’ll say that one of em’s 
name wuz Peters, another Jones, another Cas- 
sidy and another McGinty. These wa’nt their 
real names eggsactly. Fact is, they give me a 


394 


NATE SAWYER 


twenty dollar bill not to give em away. They 
hed a big dawg with em, a sort of a cross be- 
tween a bull dawg and one of them big Dane 
hounds. I ast em what they brung him along 
fer and they said as how he wuz a good bird 
dawg. I told em they’d better leave him at 
hum, he might be a good bird dawg, but he 
didn’t look it, and ef they wuz deer within 
twenty mile, he’d scare em off afore we could 
get a shot at em. Howsomever they persisted in 
bringin’ him along. Arter we’d been hittin’ 
the trail fer about ten minutes, I began to be 
mighty sorry I’d hired out to em. Fust thing 
I knowed, one of em, I think it wuz McGinty, 
stubbed his toe, and his gun went off and blowed 
the crown oflen Jones’ hat. Then again, I wuz 
trampin’ on ahead and Cassidy wuz follerin’ 
me, about six feet behind. Every time I’d look 
back at him, his rifle wuz pinted at the small 
of my back. Arter I’d spoke to him twice about 
it, I made him go ahead; and I sez to m’self. 
Wot kind of a pasel of lunatics hev I got in 
with enyway? When we got to a likely place 
fer deer, a sort of a runway, between two hills, 
I sez to ’em, Here’s as good a place as eny. All 
we got to do’s to set down behind these here 
rocks and scrubs and wait. ‘Naw,’ sez they. 
We’ll scatter out through the woods, one one 
way and another another, that bein the more 
likely way of gettin’ a sight of somethin’.’ Now 
the leaves wuz still on the trees, though turnin’ 
yaller and red, which made it mighty hard to 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 395 

see anythin’ fer certain, ef it wuz a hundred 
yards off. Besides this, all them fellers wuz 
rigged out somethin’ gorgeous in that brown 
canvas stuff, what they call ‘caky,’ jest fer all 
the world like the color of a deer’s hide, and 
I pinted out to em the fact that they run the risk 
of shootin’ each other up. ‘Naw, we won’t,’ 
sez they. ‘We kin tell a man from a deer any 
day in the week.’ Waal, I see it wuz no use 
arguin’, so I let em go, and they started off, one 
one way and another another, with the dawg 
tearin’ around, now here and now there, so’s I 
couldn’t nohow keep track of him. When they 
wuz all gone, I sez to m’self, sez I, ‘This place 
is sure no place fer me,’ and I looked round fer 
some kind of a bullet-proof shelter. Not seein’ 
anythin’ which looked anyway safe, at last, I 
dim up a big pine tree, and set down, comftable 
and peaceful-like, in a big crotch about thirty 
feet from the ground. ‘Somthin’s bound to 
happen soon,’ sez I. ‘But I don’t jest see how 
they’s goin’ to git me here.’ About fifteen 
minutes arter that, while I wuz smokin’ my pipe, 
quiet and contented-like, I heerd a shot some 
hundreds of yards off to the east. ‘Ten to one, 
he aint seen no deer,’ sez I. Just at that moment, 
kem another shot, off to the north. ‘Praps it 
wuz a deer, arter all,’ thinks I. Then kem 
another shot to the west, and, right arter it, a 
shot to the south. Then I heerd a yell, fit to 
raise the dead, from whar the third shot kem, 
and I sez to m’self, ‘One of em’s got his, sure 


396 


NATE SAWYER 


enough.’ At that I dim down outen the tree 
quicker’n scat, and made tracks toward the chap 
what had let out such an awful yowl. Pretty 
soon I met up with Cassidy, who wus runin’ 
towards the same place. He wus trailin’ his 
rifle on the ground by the barrel, and seemed 
some excited. ‘It wuz I got the deer,’ sez he, 
‘but what’s McGinty yellin’ about?’ ‘The deer 
you got,’ sez I, ‘wus^ a two-legged deer, and as 
fer hollerin’, it’s a good thing he’s got life 
enough in him fer to holler.’ Just then we kem 
through some scrub hemlocks, and found Mc- 
Ginty a runnin’ round in a circle, a holdin’ his 
hands on that part of his ’natomy which he sets 
on when he sets down. I looked him over and 
found it wuz nothin’ very serious and told him 
so. ‘Did I get the deer?’ sez he. ‘Did ye shoot 
a deer?’ sez I. ‘Sure,’ sez he, ‘he wuz off there 
in the bushes, two or three hundred yards to the 
North.’ Cassidy and I set out fer the spot he 
pinted out, and pretty soon we kem upon Peters 
a layin’ on the ground, senseless, and his face 
kivered with blood. I looked him over and 
found where a bullet hed cut a groove in the 
scalp on the top of his head, so’s you could lay 
your finger in it. Howsomever he wuz jest 
stunned and that wuz all, and, arter we had 
washed out the wound and bound him up, he 
kem out of it. And he had no more’n kem to, 
when he sez, sez he : ‘I killed a deer off there to 
the East, about three hundred yards. I saw him 
drop. Go and look him up, or Jones’ll say he 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 397 

got him.’ So we went off to where he pinted, 
and found Jones a layin’ on his back, his face as 
white as dough, his eyes a rollin’ and his hands 
on his stummick. ‘Boys,’ sez he, ‘I’m a dyin!’ 
With that I looked him over and found he wa’nt 
shot at all. The bullet hed struck the cartridges 
which was stuck in pockets acrost the front of 
his jacket, and hed knocked the wind outen him; 
but he hed a black and blue spot on his stum- 
mick as big as a plate. Soon as he found he 
wa’nt goin’ to die, he sez, sez he: ‘Jest before 
that derned fool of a Peters shot me, I shot a fine 
buck. You’ll find him lyin’ in the brush up 
there about two hundred yards to the east. 
Waal, we went to where he pinted, and, what 
d’yew think? So help me, he’d shot that big 
dawg as dead as a mackerel. So, yew see, Cas- 
sidy shot McGinty, McGinty shot Peters, Peters 
shot Jones, and Jones shot the dawg, and wa’nt 
I the wise guy, all right, to have been sittin’ up 
in that tree?” 

In a minute or two after the conclusion of 
Nate’s tale, they arrived at the outlet. As they 
did so, the boat began to feel the impetus of the 
current and was swept quickly along the black 
stream, which passed through the centre of an 
acre of lily-pads, and in a moment they had 
entered the forest and were gliding along at a 
tremendous pace beneath its interlaced and 
tangled branches. 

The guide had ceased paddling, and used 
his paddle like a rudder to steer the boat with. 


398 NATE SAWYER 

Keene was struck once or twice by low-hanging 
branches. 

“Better lie down in the bottom of the boat,’’ 
muttered Nate. 

Arthur obeyed the injunction, stretching him- 
self on his stomach and looking over the bow 
of the boat. The stream was not over fifteen 
feet wide, but very deep and running at the rate 
of ten or twelve miles an hour. 

Every now and then the creek would make 
a turn. They would come around with a sud- 
den lurch, and were it not for the vigorous 
strokes of the old man’s paddle, they would cer- 
tainly have capsiz^. At one point they passed 
two deer which wete standing knee-deep in the 
water — a buck and doe. They were so close 
to the canoe that Keene might almost have 
touched them as he swept by. They gazed at 
the two men and the boat with their large eyes 
wide open in astonishment and never offered to 
run. 

After proceeding for four or five miles in 
this manner, the creek became wider, the current 
slower, and the forest more open above their 
heads. Here Nate again began to use his pad- 
dle, and it seemed to his companion, such was 
the old man’s skill and strength, that their prog- 
ress was fully as swift as before. 

After three-fourths of their voyage had been 
completed the banks began to assume a rocky 
character; the current became more rapid and 
more broken by hidden boulders. A hun- 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 399 

dred times they would have upset had it not been 
for the old guide’s vigilance and quickness. 

“Look out! We are near the fall,” called 
out, suddenly, that individual. “Lie closer 
down and keep to the middle!” 

Keene obeyed his instructions. There was 
a pleasing uncertainty about his situation which 
made him smile in spite of himself. He hadn’t 
the slightest idea how high the fall was. It 
might be a foot or two, or it might be twenty 

feet. In this latter case his position was not to 

be envied. 

Nate began to paddle vigorously and the 
canoe shot ahead like a meteor. Suddenly the 
young man felt a sort of qualm, such as one feels 
when falling or sinking quickly in an elevator. 
The fall was all of four feet. The canoe had 

shot into the air beyond the fall, on account of 

the tremendous impetus given to it by the paddle 
of the old man, and had fallen, keel on, upon 
the water. There was a tremendous thump on 
the bottom of the canoe and several buckets of 
water came over the bow. 

Arthur attempted to bale it out, but instead 
of diminishing, the depth of water in the bottom 
of the boat seemed to increase. Looking for the 
cause of this, he found a ragged hole in the bot- 
tom fully an inch and a half in diameter. He 
took his handkerchief and, winding it around 
his finger, thrust it into the hole and baled with 
the other hand. 

“It’s all on account of the extry load,” ob- 


400 


NATE SAWYER 


served the old man. ‘‘Must have rubbed some- 
where before we kem over the fall. It’s lucky 
there’s only a couple of miles more of it, and it’s 
derned unlucky that this couple of miles are the 
worst of the hull voyage.” 

In a few moments more, Keene was fully con- 
vinced of the truth of this last assertion of the 
guide. The stream twisted and turned; the 
descent was growing greater; the current more 
impetuous, and here and there great black rocks 
rose from the bed of the creek directly in the 
channel. 

Their speed momentarily increased. Some- 
times they would cut through masses of white 
foam piled up like snow; at others, some great 
rock would appear suddenly before them, and it 
seemed as if they must be dashed to pieces, when 
a dexterous stroke of the paddle would send the 
skiff clear of the danger. 

“It will not float much longer,” all at once 
cried out Arthur, who was stopping the break 
and at the same time baling with might and 
main. 

“Hold on for five minutes more and then 
she can go,” called back Nate. 

A few minutes more passed. They had al- 
most arrived at the commencement of the gorge. 
The boat was half full of water. The old man 
veered the canoe suddenly to the left-hand bank 
of the stream. It passed over a yellowish ledge, 
which lay two or three feet below the surface, 
and was dashed with great violence against the 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 401 

rocky bank, the force of the blow smashing the 
bow to splinters and sinking the slight craft im- 
mediately. The two men scrambled up on the 
rocks, somewhat bruised, but more wet than 
hurt, while the remains of the boat drifted 
swiftly down-stream. 

“She was a good one,” said Nate, regretfully 
gazing after it. “Cost me forty dollars. Not 
that I care for that, though, but we seemed like 
old friends. Never ought to have carried two 
down Otter Creek. Waal, come on! weVe a 
good mile before us.” 

Keene looked at his watch. It was half-past 
three, and if the distance to the glen was only a. 
mile, they would, without doubt, arrive in time. 
It seemed to him, however, that it must be two 
or three miles at least, and he expressed this be- 
lief to the guide. “Only a mile, and a short one 
at that,” answered Nate, authoritatively, leading 
the way and plunging without more ado into the 
woods above the bank. “Takes seventeen hun- 
dred steps to get there. Counted ’em off more’n 
once.” 

“I would like to know, Nate, what plan you 
have to prevent these people from arresting 
Christopher Marwood. We can’t use force, 
there will be too many of them; and, even if we 
beat them off, they will come again in greater 
numbers. Neither can we induce Mr. Mar- 
wood to make his escape, as he has resolved to 
deliver himself up. What then can we do?” 

“Why, stop the hull thing right thar.” 

26 


402 


NATE SAWYER 


“How stop it?” 

“Why, the way to stop it is to stop it.” 

There was no use in interrogating a man who 
answered in this obstinate and foolish manner, 
so Keene changed his tactics. 

“Do you know Christopher Marwood per- 
sonally, Nate?” 

“Know him! that I do, and he knows me. I 
know him to be as fine a man as ever walked. 
Quick and fiery at times, mebbe, but just 
and generous and forgivin’, truer’n steel, and 
wouldn’t harm a fly, which is more’n he knows 
about me, I reckon.” 

“But how about the murder, Nate?” 

“Justifiable homicide,” was the only reply 
the old man made. 

Christopher Marwood had told Keene that 
he had never seen Nate, and here was this 
double-dyed Ananias claiming a mutual ac- 
quaintance. Arthur’s heart sank within him as 
he realized anew the guide’s ridiculous conceit 
and his boastfulness, and as he thought how this 
was the sole dependence, the last resort of the 
beautiful and sorrow-stricken Cynthia. 

“We’ve known each other many a year, hev 
I and Christopher Marwood, and that’s the rea- 
son I’d move heaven and earth to get him out of 
a triflin’ unpleasantness like this.” 

The sound of a small fall of water now came 
to Arthur’s ears, and almost immediately they 
came to a gully in which ran a deep, clear stream. 
The guide sprang across it, and the young man 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 403 

following him, they commenced to descend the 
stream on the farther side. The noise of the 
falling water increased, and presently they came 
out of the forest above the end of a deep, rock- 
walled gorge, and the young man saw that they 
were standing at the head of the mysterious glen. 

He looked at his watch. It lacked but a few 
minutes of four. 

“We are in time,” said he, with a look of 
relief. “The party has evidently not arrived.” 

“They are down there,” answered Nate, 
pointing with his thumb down into the ravine. 
Keene looked towards the spot indicated, and 
counted five men proceeding slowly and cau- 
tiously down the gorge in the direction of the 
cottage. 

“Too late, after all,” muttered he, bitterly. 
“If you had started off quicker at the beginning, 
we would have got there before them.” 

“Better get there behind ’em,” observed Nate, 
as he commenced, without more ado, to descend 
the perilous steps which led down into the 
gorge. 

A few minutes later they were following the 
five men down the gorge towards the house. 

“We can keep alongside of the cliff, under 
cover of the shrubs, and so get ahead of them,” 
eagerly exclaimed Keene. “Come! let us hasten!” 

He started on a run. Nate grasped his arm 
with a hand of iron, pulling him back. 

“You will get us into trouble with them, and 
spoil all,” said he. 


404 


NATE SAWYER 


A feeling of rage entered Arthur’s heart, and 
he felt like striking the old man; nevertheless, 
he restrained himself and walked on beside him 
in moody silence. 

When the sheriffs party was within a few 
hundred feet of the house, one man happened to 
look back and saw the two following. He spoke 
to his companions and they all stopped, and con- 
versed together, and looked at Keene and the old 
man. In a moment, seemingly as though they 
had come to the conclusion that it did not mat- 
ter, they resumed their march. 

When they arrived at the house, Keene and 
the old man were a hundred feet behind them. 
Roberts came out on the porch as they came up. 

“What is your business here?” he inquired, 
gravely. 

“We came to see Mr. Christopher Mar- 
wood,” said one of the men, who seemed to be 
their leader. “Is he in the house?” 

“He is, but he is not feeling well and you 
cannot see him today.” 

“We must see him. Stand aside, my man, 
and let us go in.” 

They prepared to force their way past Rob- 
erts into the house. At that moment, Cynthia 
rushed out upon the porch and stood directly in 
their way. She was dressed in black, and the 
pallor of her skin and the dark rings beneath her 
eyes showed that she had been suffering. Arthur 
and Nate had by this time joined the five men. 
Arthur was standing to one side so that she did 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 405 

not see him. The old man had purposely 
stepped behind a tree. 

“My father is a poor old man. He is weak 
and cannot stand a shock. Can you not wait 
until some other day? Until he is stronger?” 
she asked the men. 

They shook their heads. Featherstone, who 
was one of them, forced his way to the front and 
took her by the wrist. 

“We came here to arrest him, and we are not 
going away until we do it. Do you see?” 

Cynthia gave a cry of pain, of horror. At 
that moment Arthur caught the Englishman by 
the collar and, spinning him around like a top, 
hurled him fifteen feet away. His companions 
grappled with the young man, and just then the 
venerable, white-haired Christopher Marwood 
appeared in the doorway. 

“What is the cause of this disturbance, my 
friends?” said he, calmly and gravely. 

The men let go of Arthur, and the same one 
who had previously spoken, a deputy sheriff, by 
name John Grant, spoke for the rest. 

“Are you Christopher Marwood, sir?” 

“I am,” answered the old man, gently yet 
firmly. 

“I have a warrant for your arrest.” 

He produced a document from his pocket. 
Cynthia stepped to her father’s side and threw 
her arm around his neck. Grant read the war- 
rant. When he had finished, there was silence, 
except for the sobbing of the girl. 


4o6 


NATE SAWYER 


“What is the charge against Christopher 
Marwood?” suddenly spoke up Nate, who had 
stepped into view. 

Cynthia gave a cry of joy. Grant turned 
around and looked curiously at the singular 
apparition. 

“I don’t know that it’s any of your business, 
my old fellow, but at the same time I haven’t any 
objections to telling you that Mr. Marwood is 
charged with having, some twenty-five years 
ago, murdered a resident of this vicinity named 
Beriah Crane.” 

“It’s a lie,” said Nate, coolly, looking Grant 
in the face. 

“Better keep a civil tongue in your head, or 
you’ll get into trouble yourself,” said the latter. 

“It’s a lie,” reiterated the old guide, stepping 
into the midst of the group. 

“Why so, my old chap?” asked Grant, ironic- 
ally. 

“Because,” answered the guide, straightening 
himself up, “I am Beriah Crane!” 

A silence like death fell upon the group. 
Christopher Marwood, who from the first mo- 
ment of Nate’s appearance had kept his gaze 
riveted upon him, as if under some sort of power- 
ful fascination, came down the steps trembling, 
his eyes wide open and looking straight before 
him, like a somnambulist. He put his hands 
upon the old guide’s shoulders and gazed for a 
moment upon his face. 

“It is he! it is he! Oh, the mercy of God! 
It is he!” 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 407 


The words came in a faint, hoarse whisper. 
Then suddenly he reeled backwards and would 
have fallen, if Nate had not caught him and 
seated him gently and reverently upon the steps 
of the porch. The guide stood there, by his side, 
with his arm thrown affectionately around his 
neck, in a measure supporting him. With the 
other arm he gesticulated forcibly and nervously 
as he told, swiftly and without pausing, the fol- 
lowing story. 

“It wuz more’n twenty-five year ago. This 
man, Christopher Marwood, his brother Steve 
and me wuz at law together. They beat me 
somethin’ scandalous, and used up every cent I 
hed. Waal, we met one night on the banks of 
Otter Creek, a matter of a mile above the town, 
to talk the thing over. Our argifyin’ ended up 
in a row; I called Kit Marwood a tough name, 
somethin’ that wa’nt true. He went off his base 
to onct and hit me a awful wallop oyer the pate. 
I wuz knocked plumb senseless and fell down as 
ef I’d been shot. When I kem to, a leetle later, 
he wuz clean outen his head and wuz doin’ all 
he could to bring me outen it, I held my breath 
and did everythin’ to make him think as I wuz 
dead. Arter awhile they quit. Kit Marwood 
seemed eeilamost crazy cause of what he done. 
Steve told him to light out to onct, and he took 
his advice and started off, leavin’ me to Steve, 
who promised to look arter me, and dew all he 
could to bring me back to life. Arter Kit wuz 
well out of sight and bearin’ this hypocritical 


NATE SAWYER 


408 

old cuss, Steve Marwood, dragged me to the 
bank of the Creek, and tumbled me into the 
bilin’ water. I let ’em do it, cause I wuz a 
mighty good swimmer, and cause it put him in 
my power. When I sank, I swum along the 
bottom of the creek and kem up fifty feet below 
the pint where he hed thrown me. It wuz dark 
and he didn’t see me arter I sank. I stayed in 
the stream till I got down to the mill; then I 
landed and went hum. I wuz livin’ alone then. 
I took what leetle money I hed in the house, and, 
bein’ keerful to leave no trail, left Glendale that 
night without enyone knowin’ of it. I hed lost 
every dollar in my suits with the Marwoods; I 
owed Tom, Dick and Harry, and couldn’t hev 
stayed thar no longer nohow. I concludes 
therefore to take advantage of my bein’ a corpse 
and vanish from the community. Fust I thought 
I’d even up with the Marwoods. I follered Kit 
Marwood everywhere. I hed a lot of chances 
to pay him back fer that tarnation hard crack 
what he give me, but the more I knew of him, 
the more I thought he wuz a pretty good sort of 
a chap arter all, and the less I felt like gettin’ 
even with him. I hed some relations livin’ 
around in different places, who hed depended 
on me, now and then, to help ’em out, when I 
wuz better fixed fer doin’ it. Two of ’em went 
to Steve Marwood fer a small loan, which he 
refused. A few months arterwards, this man 
Kit Marwood sent over and hed ’em all hunted 
out by his agents, and fer more’n twenty year 


EQUAL TO THE OCCASION 409 

pervided ’em, without their knowin’ who he 
wuz, with a comftable livin’. When I diskiv- 
ered this, my hard feelin’s all oozed outen me, 
and ’stead of thinkin’ how I c’ud down him, I 
jest turned round the other way and became 
plumb anxious to give him a lift somehow. 
Waal, I kem back to the Adirondacks, makin’ my 
headquarters on the eastern side of the woods, 
and I turned to and follered the perfession of a 
guide. This way of life wuz pleasin’ and give 
me a chance to get even with Steve Marwood, 
which same I hed no use fer, nohow. Even this 
feelin’ wore away in time, and I kin truly say 
that I hev no ill-will to no one. Wengeance is 
mine,’ saith the Lord. T will repay.’ And so 
let it be with Steve Marwood, fer I never shall 
go fer to harm him. As fer this man. Kit Mar- 
wood, thar’s no man like him. He’s a Christian 
gent, he is, and ef thar’s any of ’em more truer 
and better and more like his Maker, I’d jest like 
to meet up with sech.” 

Every one was mute with astonishment and 
filled with interest in the old man’s tale. When 
he had finished, Cynthia went to him and almost 
hugged him in her delight, laughing and crying 
at the same moment. Christopher had hold of 
his hand in both his own. Tears of gratitude 
and happiness moistened his furrowed cheeks, 
and he looked now at Cynthia and now at Nate, 
as if still in doubt as to the reality of this wonder- 
ful change in his fortunes. 

A year has passed since the day which wit- 
nessed the occurrences just described. Arthur 


410 


NATE SAWYER 


Keene and his wife, who looks very much like 
the little huntress, are making a stay of several 
weeks at the cottage in the glen. They have a 
winter home in one of the large Atlantic coast 
cities, and have been travelling abroad for the 
last half-year. They are, at present, wandering 
together up the gorge towards the cascade. He 
has his arm around her waist, and it looks very 
much as if he were making love to her, just as 
he did a year ago. Old Mr. Marwood is sitting 
at the open window of the library engaged in an 
interesting conversation with another old man 
who sits at the other window. This latter is an 
honored and ever-welcome guest in the house- 
hold, and is no other personage than Beriah 
Crane. His friends never call him anything, 
however, but Nate. He is as much of a char- 
acter as ever. He shows the same dry, kindly 
humor, and though keen, shrewd, and unerring, 
for the most part, the eccentric and defective 
side of his nature sometimes gets the better of 
him, and he exhibits the old propensity towards 
drawing the long bow, and maintaining, in the 
face of positive proof to the contrary, that right 
is left and that left is right. His mind has evi- 
dently never fully recovered from the injury 
caused by his early disasters, and there is cer- 
tainly a screw loose somewhere in his mental 
mechanism. 

Finally, the little wooden sign above the 
porch has been turned right side out, and upon 
it, in legible characters, one can read the name 
of the house, “Heart’s Rest.” 


























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